Two states in two days.

We finally left New Orleans for a place called St. Francesville that supposedly has a haunted plantation house which sounded uber cool and was on the way to Mississippi. We drove all night (oh man, the stupid Celine Dion song popped into my head right there) and arrived at about 3AM, hoping to find a Wal-Mart or a discreet residential street to park on. There were neither of these.

St. Francesville looked like the Gilmore Girls or, Pleasantville or something straight out of the southern version of Leave it to Beaver. All the houses were either plantation houses with acres and acres attached to them or colonials with big white columns and rose bushes growing up the front. The main street actually looks like it’s a main street! At last, a quaint little town that wasn’t dying!

The problem with this beautiful, quaint little town is that a big, beige, hippy van full of unwashed girls does not blend it. We couldn’t just park Bebe next to the Cherokee and assume that the neighbours would just think Bob was having a guest, or maybe Lou’s cousin was in town. If there was ever a place that we stuck out like a sore thumb worse than any other, this was it. We stuck out so much that even though it was 3AM and even JEBUS was asleep, the town sheriff noticed us driving around looking for somewhere to sleep and pulled up next to us asking if we were lost.

“No, we were just hoping to find a Wal-Mart or something to sleep at for the night,” TJ explained.

The Sheriff just laughed, confirmed our suspicions that this wonderful/evil chain did not exist anywhere near St. Francesville, and directed us to the truck stop a few miles back that had another RV parked in it. SUCESS!

Loudest truck stop EVER. No sleep, but I satisfied myself with washing my hair with a 500ml bottle of water and some Live Clean Shampoo. SO SATISFYING!

There was construction going on so we didn’t end up going to see the plantation, and instead just continued driving into Mississippi.

My grade 6 and 7 teacher was born and raised in Mississippi, and I kept thinking about him when we were there. I can’t remember what part of the state he was from, but I kept thinking, “man, it’d be great to see him again and tell him ‘Hey! I went to Mississippi!’ and we could talk about some stuff and perhaps prance off into the distance like the best friends we were meant to be!” This is not true, my teacher was slightly terrifying, and is now most like terribly old, but still, the 11 year old in me still wants to try to impress the teacher with a “guess what I did” story.

Mississippi flew by! We found a Wal-Mart, but apparently the next morning someone was panhandling in the parking lot, and Bebe, the hippy-mobile that she is, drew the short straw for the most likely candidate to be housing beggars. This is not far from the truth generally, but in this particular instance was not true... which is what TJ told the officer when he pounded on the side of the van during our sleep in.  We think TJ’s appearance is what sealed the deal on the cop believing us. Saved by Betty Boop Pj’s.

Deciding that Mississippi was clearly not our scene, we continued on to Memphis Tennessee!

It was extremely difficult for me to get “Graceland” by Paul Simon, “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohn, and “Hound Dog” out of my head the entire time I was there.

Once again, we rolled into town in the dead of night and while trying to find a place to grab some grub, realized that we were on Elvis Presley Boulevard and, oh...Holy Shit...there’s freaking Graceland right there! Amidst fast food chains and strip malls...lies the King’s final resting place. 

Excited beyond belief, but still desperately in need of sustenance, we continued on our mission and then discovered Wal-Mart...five blocks from Graceland.

The next day, we got up and prepared ourselves for all things Elvis.

I have to say, I’m not a die-hard fan of everything Elvis ever did, but young Elvis...the one in the Brando-esque motorcycle picture, the one with the hair, and the Jailhouse rock, and the hips...that Elvis is a total dish!

We bought (and by bought I mean used my expired ISIC card to get the student price. BOOYAW!) the platinum package which allowed us access to the Graceland tour, the airplane, the car museum, and the memorabilia museum. With fifteen minutes to spare until the last tour we grabbed our headset with automated tour prompts, and boarded the Graceland Express (or minivan).

The one thing that people will tell you when you say you are going to Graceland is “you’ll be surprised at its size”. For a man who had millions of dollars and was known as the King, his house was extremely modest. Extravegantly decorated and outfitted with all the things the man could possibly want, but size wise, so much smaller than I would have expected.

You can walk around the main floor and the basement of the house, but they have the upstairs (where he died and his private place) roped off from tourists. The rooms are so ‘70s it hurts to look at, but in the best possible way. There are pictures of Priscilla, Lisa Marie, his parents and himself nestled on side tables and on the walls, and even though the morbidly curious side of you wants to see the bathroom and fry up a PB and Banana sandwich, the little voice in your head is going “this seems wrong somehow. I am being that annoying, intrusive fan-person and Elvis’ ghost is watching on in horror and thinking ‘get the fuck off my carpet!’”

We went into the outbuildings, where Vernon, Elvis’ dad had his office and where the museum was that housed all of his awards and various outfits worn by Elvis in the movies and on TV appearances. They even had his and Priscilla’s wedding clothes and I just looked at them and tried to wrap my head around the fact that I  was sitting there, looking at the same pieces of material that I’d seen from the Much Music specials and Behind the Music.

You go into the racquetball building which now houses all his Vegas outfits, the white ones with the bling and the capes and the Gold sunglasses. I walked around the room and it finally hit me that Elvis...is a big damned deal! He made cheesy movies, he gained some weight in the end, but when it comes down to it, the man introduced Rock n’ Roll into the mainstream. Rock...and...ROLL for crying out loud! And this was his shit! This was his house where he lived for twenty years! Unreal...

We left the racquetball building and the voice on the automated tour headset says that the last stop on the tour is the meditation garden, where the man came to relax and think...and where he is now buried with his parents. Every single hair stood up on my arms and I slowly walked down the sidewalk towards a white stone angel with the name “Presley” stamped on the bottom.

The graves lay in a semi-circle in front of a big fountain and beside the stone angel. There is a curved wall with benches on it for people to sit on and do whatever they came there to do. Most just walk up and take a picture of each of the gravestones, maybe one of the pool and continue on to the bus. Others walk up to the grave crying, and leave a flowers, poems and statues on his grave. I just stood there, with my morbid curiosity and thought “The man is down there. He is in the ground under that plaque and I am standing six feet up from him. Jesus. Christ.”

New Orleans has been a wonderful and cruel mistress…

Brad Pitt 1 and 2 set us up with some people to stay with when we arrived in New Orleans who were absolutely wonderful! I’ve been saying in some of my previous posts how great everyone has been to us down here, and Coffee Man and Pasia Fan were no exception. We arrived a little late because driving the van in city traffic is a harrowing adventure in itself, but settled in for a while to play with our host’s three adorable dachshunds. Shortly after doggie playtime we hopped in their car and they took us out for dinner, which was extremely wonderful.

I feel I need to thank everyone who has treated us to something while we’ve been on the road. It’s so strange to have people you’ve just met pay for you to eat, even though they’re happy to do it because they are wonderful and they want to help out the Canadians who are strapped for cash. Despite my ingrained guilt factor I have accepted all offers of free food, and I wish to thank each and every person who has done so! THANK YOU!

Back to the latest of our dinners…Coffee Man and Pasia Fan took us to the coolest restaurant. It looks like a big old house, and when you walk in and down the stairs to the seating area you are confronted with floor to ceiling windows that overlook the lighted swamp. The menu is Cajun and delicious; TJ ordered Jambalaya and I had Crawfish Etouffee as my first foray into unknown meat groups. As we ate it started to rain, which was extremely beautiful to watch fall in the water of the bayou. Our hosts gave us nothing but awesome recommendations of places to see while we were in town and we had great conversation for the entirety of our meal. We went to bed relatively early and got up the next day ready to see the French Quarter.

As I mentioned, driving the van in big city traffic is harrowing. Parking in tiny French streets is nothing short of ridiculous. Bebe is nine feet tall at the back, so any underground parking is out of the question, and she’s also rather long and possesses numerous blind spots. TJ deserves some sort of physical commendation for her mastering of Bebe’s bulk in tiny, tiny streets.

 Once parked, we walked along the Mighty Mississippi in the unending search for a public bathroom and then, to continue the need for this search, went to find Café du Monde for some Café au Lait and Beignets. It’s an outdoor coffee shop that has been open 24/7 since the 1700’s and makes a delightful coffee. I could do without so much powdered sugar on the French doughnuts but even though I accidentally inhaled some of the white substance and looked like a complete coke-head for about three and a half minutes, they were worth it!

On our way into the French Quarter we happened upon a Voodoo Museum, which was the first item on our New Orleans Bucket List, so we entered the tiny establishment and wandered the creeptastic rooms. Not only are there dusty carpets on the floor, black paint adorning almost everything, and (I’m almost positive) real human skulls on some of the alters, there were sinister looking (and seemingly well used) voodoo dolls on display, Marie Laveau’s alter bench, and a bunch of gris-gris materials like bat wings, tiny bones (possibly human!), and a representation of a rougarou (spelling is questionable but this is apparently the voodoo equivalent of the “gator man” who is also possessing of some vampire-like qualities). So much fun! I made a wish on a voodoo stump and will thank Marie Laveau and the Loas if it comes true!

Pasia Fan suggested that our first order of business after coffee (and voodoo) should be to grab a drink-to-go somewhere, which is possibly the best and worst idea ever. As New Orleans is known for debauchery in all forms, drinking is a necessary ingredient for 90% of the fun to be had on Bourbon St. and since they don’t want people smashing drinking glasses and beer bottles on the road…they’ve adapted. You can have any drink you like, out in public, in stores, walking around…as long as it’s in a plastic/Styrofoam cup. Also, if you happen to purchase one of these brilliantly conceived plastic cups, be aware that they are priced at $8 for a reason. Apart from one and a half beignets, a piece of toast, and half an orange, my stomach was not prepared for the dynamite within my giant to-go cup. That it was made with everclear and 151 is beside the point.

Not yet at the stumbling point, we went in search of a fortune teller so TJ could get her palm read. Enter Betty, the pinkly-clad, southern, psychic and her Spanish dog. After forty minutes of fortune telling, and me filming the whole thing, I was decently soused and in desperate need of another bathroom (I swear our lives are dictated by the availability of toilets).

In addition to ingeniously allowing for potent drinking to occur in public, the establishments of the French Quarter have incited another little detail to make sure you get beyond the decent level of drunken-ness. No where will let you pee…unless you buy a drink. Enter the Long Island Iced Tea, my friend and nemesis.

Since the future had been told, voodoo had been seen, and drinking had begun, we decided to make our way to one of the local Jazz haunts called Snug Harbour. It’s a little outside the French Quarter, so of course on our lengthy walk there, I had to pee once again. Enter the Jack and Coke with Lemon.

By the time we arrived at Snug Harbour, the room was spinning and I was in need of some solace in the ladies room. TJ waited, by herself, at the table…for ten minutes. TJ went to look for JT. TJ found JT passed out leaning against the toilet paper dispenser with her arm trailing on the ground. TJ talked to a complete stranger woman about how the stranger walked in on JT and JT didn’t even notice. TJ roused JT who made herself sick so the room might stop spinning. TJ took embarrassing pictures of JT while JT told TJ about the toilet water on her fingers. JT needed food…

I think I ran into about three or four different garbage cans on the way to a decent restaurant, but we managed to find a place with a balcony overlooking a golden statue and that was playing some jazz music, since we clearly weren’t going to be able to go back to Snug Harbour for a while. Oops! The ingestion of some bread and water made me feel much improved and after half an hour of looking for the van, we drove out of the debauchery and back to our little haven at our host’s house.

Our second day in the quarter we booked a river cruise on the paddle wheeler Creole Queen. This was the moment my party dress had been waiting for! Apart from some annoying teenage misfits running around the deck, and an obscenely strong amaretto coffee drink for TJ, we sat on the upper deck and watched the tug boats, tankers, and speed boats pass us by on the Mississippi.

Earlier in the day we rode the Canal St. Trolley car up to St. Louis Cemetary No. 1 where Marie Laveau is supposedly buried. Once back in the Quarter, we returned to Betty the Psychic and I had my tarot cards read. She was pretty much bang on, and said that I needed to find a constructive outlet for all the anger I keep storing. Story of my life! Watch out people, I’m apparently going to be joining some sort of class that will involve me punching things.

Our “last” day in New Orleans just so happened to be the weekend before St. Paddy’s Day and therefore the weekend with all the fun in shades of green and we planned to partake in the festivities. TJ donned her new, green, “Pale is the New Tan” shirt, and I (as always) drew a ridiculous cloverleaf on my face, tied a green bandana around my in-need-of-a-shower hair and prepared for greatness.

The first bit of the evening was maaaaarvelous! We had margaritas in a tequila bar, to go of course, and walked around all the green-clad tourists and drunk people. Both TJ and I found discarded green beads on the ground, and purchased some more of our own. I decided to buffer any more of the intense French Quarter drinks with a hot dog, which may or may not have been a good idea. The man selling it, while asking for my order, couldn’t hear me because of a car driving by playing incredibly loud rap music. Before repeating himself he said “God damned ni**er music. Whatchoo want on it?” It is possible that this hate-filled hot dog that TJ and I shared became the downfall of the entire evening…but that comes later.

Stopping to purchase another drink each, it became clear that TJ was so very soused. She was what I was two days previously, but she was laughing and having a grand old time and not running into any garbage cans, so we continued on inside of a dirty, dirty little bar on Bourbon St. I wasn’t feeling the liquor nearly as much as the other night, and my hate-dog was angry at my stomach, but bought a Jack and Coke anyway. We chatted, listened to some oldies, tried to engage the crotchety old bartender in some conversation, and then left in search of fun!

As this is New Orleans, and we were on Bourbon St. there were people hanging off of balconies trying to entice people (not just the ladies) into showing some skin for some beads. In my lucid mind this seems like a terribly degrading thing to do, just for some strings of shiny plastic. Lucid mind was not driving the train at this point however, so I procured a lovely string of beads with a Centurion on it (of all things) by conventional New Orleans means. I thank the middle-aged woman who chucked them at me and I will treasure them forever.

By the time we reached our final destination of the night, both TJ and I had flashed random people twice for freaking beads!!! Shiny. Bits. Of. Plastic. So stupid…and awesome.

TJ was becoming, at this point, the kind of drunk where you think you are fine, but you are so not fine. We popped into a restaurant so I could order us some starchy food (to soak up the alcohol. Where is some poutine when you need it!) and within a minute of our arrival TJ headed to the bathroom. JT ordered food, JT ate food, JT waited ten minutes before heading into the bathroom.

At first I just assumed TJ was having the same experience I was having two days previously, and all she needed was a little puke, some encouragement and possibly some water. Which is why I took this picture…in revenge. I am an asshole.

TJ was poisoned man! By the time I finally saw the warzone inside of TJ’s stall, it was clear that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong! I stayed inside that bathroom with her for three hours, smiling at people who assumed she had just drank too much and fending off the wishes of “Is she alright? We’ve all been there, honey!” with smiles and assurances that I was looking out for her. I convinced the manager of the restaurant not to call an ambulance (I’ve seen “Sicko” and $5000 for an ambulance ride is ridiculous) and we were allowed to ride out the worst of it inside the bathroom until they closed.

TJ still wasn’t doing well by this time, but we managed to rally the troops and I led us back to the van and set her up on her side, on the floor with the standard weapons for fighting alcohol: water, bread, a bucket, and some blankets.

TJ was freaking sick, all night, and all the next day. We paid for hourly parking this whole time, and barely made it back to the Wal-Mart we were planning on staying at, at around 2:30 in the morning on Monday.

Everyone we’ve talked to seems to think that it was just a case of over-drinking in New Orleans and “everybody’s been there”. I cite TJ’s own protestation that she had 19 drinks on her 19^th birthday and was totally fine. Something wrong happened, man! Maybe her drink got micked, the hate-dog turned on her, she had an allergic reaction, I dunno; there’s no way that three drinks over three hours could cause such damage.

On the plus side, I got to walk around the French Quarter by myself and take some pictures on the Mississippi while TJ recovered.

See:

The wonderful thing about almost every state we’ve been to is that you know the second you’ve crossed from one state to another because things look different almost immediately. When we crossed from California into Arizona, organ pipe cacti popped up all over everything; New Mexico became flatter and browner; when we crossed into Texas it got even flatter and oil wells scattered the side of the road and well off into the distance. I used to notice this strange natural alert system when we’d go to the states when I was growing up; the minute you crossed the border, everything somehow looked a little bit more American. Each state just seems a little bit more Texan, or Arizonan, or Californian and it’s pretty cool!

The same goes for Louisiana. Texas is, for the most part, fairly flat and country like, but the closer you get to the Louisiana border the wetter things look, the more you notice that the numerous animals that have been pulverized by vehicles on the highway have changed from skunks and foxes to possums. When we finally crossed into Louisiana, there was a visitor’s centre about two miles in that seemed like a good idea to investigate. This visitors centre was decorated like a plantation house, in behind it was a park that looked out onto bayou, complete with signs that said “No Swimming” and had a picture of an alligator over it. Lichen hung from the trees, “Who Dat?” signs hung from the rear view mirrors: We had arrived at our intended destination!

We stayed our first night in this new state in a place called Lake Charles, which was unexciting in the extreme to us Wal-Mart dwellers. Day two led us to Lafayette which we did not stay in because we could not find a single instance of civilization, and while sleeping on the side of the road in the Bayou might sound like a cool thing to do, I am not inclined to be either eaten by gators while attempting to pee or shot by rednecks for trespassing. I’ve seen “Deliverance” I do not need to experience it first hand.

We were advised to take Highway 90 down into the “real” bayou, but I think this highway was once a delightful scenic drive and is now simply a major thoroughfare lined by the same series of chain restaurants and stores as every other town in America (PS if you are road-tripping down here and looking for a Wal-Mart parking lot to stay in, keep an eye out for Game Stop, they seem to cohabitate with Wally’s).  Needless to say, we did see some bayou, but we also saw a lot of highway.

With almost every other small town in America that we’ve been to, the once fun and historic town centres with the old buildings and tree lined streets are dying in the most tragic way. We pulled off Highway 90 into a place called Morgan City, which from the road looked like the kind of white picket, southern town we were eagerly hoping to explore. The only things open were bars, most of the buildings were falling down or were in desperate need of a paint job, and odd looking people meandered, seemingly without purpose, in and out of dilapidated structures long enough to stare curiously at the van and retreat into their dens once more.

Deciding that we should just continue the hell on down the road, we kick started the beige beast and made ready to leave. No sooner had we turned the corner from in front of the post office than one of these den-dwellers waved us down and approached the driver’s side window.

“Do you need some food?”

We stared blankly.

“I saw the sign in the window of your van. Do you need some food? I was going to give ya’ll five dollars for a meal…”

We suddenly remembered the “Will Work for Food” sign in the back window of the van, and quickly informed this wonderfully kind hearted man that it was a graduation joke, and that we weren’t starving. Anyone who says that Canadians are the most apologetic, polite, do-gooders clearly has not experienced southern hospitality. Granted, I am a white female traveling with another white female and this, for some reason, makes people want to shelter us from harm instead of eye us suspiciously.

In any case! Our final stop on this southerly highway 90 course was Houma. This is where they filmed the movie “The Skeleton Key” with Kate Hudson, which is about voodoo and is totally badass. This is also where we had the most ridiculous dinner of life.

We had been traveling alongside a river of sorts; it was muddy brown and lined with gigantic plantation-like houses on the far side, complete with lichen-ridden trees and Old Glory blowing from the flagpole out front. It was starting to get fairly dark so we pulled off into the parking lot of the first restaurant we saw. This just happened to be a “coffee” shop (I will elaborate on those quotation marks in a moment) attached to the Red Carpet Inn.

There was a small dog without a leash wandering around the parking lot and it followed us in the building like this was common place. No one seemed to notice or care. Country music twanged from an unseen room down the hallway, which was eliminated the second we walked into the café. Two old men, who I feel were probably only in possession of two or three teeth between them, sat at two of the tables…they looked at us like the outsiders we were. I noticed Larry the Cable Guy and Jeff Foxworthy blared from a television that was perched atop the refrigerator as we sat down at one of the tables and a horse-faced waitress approached us with menus. We sat in cautious silence, not wanting to draw attention to our differentness.

Two men in their thirties wearing camouflage trucker hats, wranglers, and white(ish) T-shirts entered the café:

“Hey look!” (imagine the epitome of southern accents) “It’s my man on T.V.!” Larry the Cable Guy ranted about women drivers from his place of glory on top of the fridge.

Another woman entered the café. Her bleach blonde hair had 7” black roots and she wore tapered jeans and a faded blue hoodie-less sweatshirt.

“Aw, heeeell naw! You is suppos’ta be on Vaycay!” Our waitress bellowed from behind the counter. We pondered the menu in silence.

After a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to ignore the conversation between our waitress with the unfortunate horsey teeth and her desperately-in-need-of-a-touch-up friend, said friend left and the waitress approached with cups of “coffee”.

“What exactly is catfish” TJ asked. Our cover was now officially blown, but this was okay as toothless 1 and 2, Larry’s biggest fans, and the waitress’ friend had moseyed on down the hall to the bar.

“You really wanna know?”

We assured her that this was the case.

“It’s a bottom-feeder. Lotsa people like ‘em though!”

“Like tiny sturgeon?” I enquired. (I harbor a fear of sturgeon because they dwell in the river I used to swim in as a child, which I didn’t know for several years until an article in the newspaper showed a man holding up one of the 14 foot giants he’d caught. Not. Amused.)

“Yeah!”

I ordered chicken fingers.

As we waited for our food we turned our attention away from the conversation the waitress was having with the cook about her son Bubba and the new Tony Hawk game she just bought for him, and focused on our coffee. There was no sugar. There was no cream. There was Sweet n’ Low and powdered creamer packets…in the coffee shop.

After our meal I went outside for some fresh air and it basked in the glory of the swamp. Inhaling air in the bayou is like breathing through a hot, wet, facecloth that is made out of moss. You can smell the mud, you can feel the wetness of the air, and you can appreciate the ridiculousness of the people who live there. Especially when one of them looks like Jason Stackhouse and gives you the “southern nod” complete with ‘Ma’am’ as he walks by. So far we have only listened to “Bad Things” by Jace Everett five times since entering the state, but my giggle factor has been set to 11 since we got here. I want to see vampires, I want to see shape shifters, I wanna do bad things with youuuuuuuuuu!

New Orleans here we come!

Apart from a brief and uneventful stay in Bryan Texas, TJ and I have been living it up in Houston! Our CS host was so delightful in so many ways starting with taking us out for Texan Bar-B-Q on our first night in the town. We’d been saying as how we should experience an entire meal full of dead, slowly cooked, animals, as roadhouses selling such things have been littered all over the highway and the man DELIVERED! I have never eaten a meal so devoid of vegetables in my life.

After dinner we ended up back near our host(who I shall name Techno because of his love of techie toys)’s house at a bar called The Tall Texan, which was fortuitous as upon entering said bar, several drunken people shouted “Happy Texas Independence day!” and drank copious amounts of beer in a few seconds. We joined them ordering our own $1.75 beers while TJ monopolized the airwaves with some CCR out of the juke box and I sat around admiring all the Texas-ness.

Our second day in Houston, Techno had to work (grown up jobs suck!) so we ended up in the funky part of town (who’d a-thunk there’d be a LGBT part of town in Houston) on the hunt for party dresses to wear in New Orleans, and delicious food for our bellies. The Empire Café delivered an amazing lunch and happy hour drink that left me completely sated in the belly-filling department, and after traipsing through American Apparel and other similar stores, we finally hit pay dirt in a two-part vintage clothing store where I found a freaking sweet ‘50s style dress for $15!!! Yay deals!

When we got back to Techno’s he suggested we pick up his Canadian friend and head to a bar he knew in Houston…called The Maple Leaf. I shit you not there is an entire bar dedicated to all things Canadian in Texas. We walked in the door, and my eyes teared up a little and the sight of a neon Molson sign. There was hockey playing on the televisions, a foose-hockey table next to a penalty box that housed a bar table and chairs, and a stuffed beaver on the wall. I sat down at a table, took a sip from my Molson and for just a minute felt like I was a little closer to Canada. I never thought I’d say that I’d be able to distinguish brands of beer, but regardless of whether or not Molson Canadian is a good beer, it has its own distinctive flavour that somehow tastes like Canada.

We attempted to hit the sack a little bit earlier as we had tickets for the Level 9 tour of NASA the next day, but what with all the beer, and me successfully hooking TJ on the Outlander books (I think I’ve managed to convert nearly every female I’ve ever met into Jamie Fraser-ettes, Muahahahaha!) and the both of us staying up to read, this did not occur. But we forged ahead anyway; I mean who sleeps in on NASA day!

We traversed the 45 minute trip to South Houston without incident and arrived at the Lynden B. Johnson Space Centre with plenty of time to kill before our tour.

I should perhaps explain what the Level 9 tour is. On a regular tour of NASA, you get on a tram, you drive around the buildings, you go in the observation deck levels of all the areas available for tourists, you go in the museum, you see the rockets, and you go home.

A Level 9 tour is so very much more than that…

We ate lunch in the cafeteria that the astronauts, mission controllers, and rocket scientists eat at. It was like a high school cafeteria complete with an overwhelming sense of being far too uncool for the whole situation, though the food was much better. When we stepped outside I kept trying to imagine what the facility looked like back in the sixties; the parking lot full of old cars, people smoking like chimneys, and an abundance of polyester.

We went to the Sonny Carter Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory and saw an actual Astronaut train underwater amidst shuttle sized reproductions and surrounded by divers. I then took a picture of the “Suited Astronaut Parking Only” sign outside before we hopped back in our van and passed a Boeing building with a sign that looked peculiarly like ________ Defense Systems. I thought as we passed it that since it was parked right next to a NASA training facility it might be the new “rephrased” version of Star Wars (a.k.a. nuclear weapons in space) and got a bit of a chill.

We went to mission control…but more than that, we went into mission control. As soon as you get off the elevator onto the MC floor, there is an overpowering smell of black coffee that as apparently permeated every nook and cranny of the building. Our tour guide called it “fuel” and we all laughed falsely at his Eurek-y joke. People walk passed looking purposeful and incredibly normal thought their official NASA badges declaring their purpose in life labeled them as anything else.

We went into the observation room of the new Mission Control where they were doing a simulation run for the next Shuttle Launch. Once again, I was struck with how average these people looked, regardless of how far from average their jobs are.

Next we went into the observation room of one of the older mission control rooms, but this one was not doing a simulation. They had a live feed going with the Space Station and we watched as they went into 45 minutes of darkness on their rotation around the earth.

Our final stop in the MC building was the classic “Green Room” mission control of the Apollo era. We did not go into the observation room here…we went into room! Behind the glass was the “other” tour, which I’m sure sat and watched enviously as I pulled out one of the grey office chairs and sat down in front of the Flight Director’s station. It was extremely difficult not to push the many buttons displayed in front of me; I looked up on the walls and saw the mission plaques from all the Apollo flights and the red phone with the direct line to the pentagon and that familiar question kept popping into my brain: where ARE we???

We went into the Vehicle Mock-Up Facility where the Astronauts actually train to pilot the shuttles, rovers, and lunar modules and where NASA engineers were working on the new chariot vehicle. Our tour guide told us that we were not allowed to photograph the Astronauts unless they came up and posed voluntarily. I had two intense feelings that often accompany me when I go into an extremely holy church: 1) the unstoppable urge to swear, and 2) this all encompassing sense that I just do not belong there. I am not an astronaut, I am not a rocket scientist, hell I’m not even a regular scientist; I live in a freaking van right now! Why on earth should I be walking around with people who are so far out of my league as peers…they’re in fucking space! Once again, however, we saw the poor shmoes behind glass on the top level, and both TJ and I had the biggest “too bad suckas” smiles on our faces. Level 9 bitches! Booyaw!

Finally we went inside the Rocket Park, which the other tours do get to go in, but it’s still worth mentioning because it’s the biggest damn thing I may have ever seen. The Saturn V rockets took all of the Apollo missions up, but for some reason Apollo 18 lacked funding and for some reason that rocket never went up. It now sits in a warehouse sized just big enough to fit the rocket…and it’s massive. For example:

That’s TJ…and THAT’S the freaking rocket! So cool.

Anywho, after staying a few days with Techno we met up with two more of TJ’s acquaintances (whom I shall name Brad Pitt 1 and Brad Pitt 2) and stayed at their amazing home for the weekend. Our plans were to take in a Joel Osteen Jesus-filled Sunday at his stadium sized church, but sleeping in just seemed so much better.

We did end up going down to Galveston for the day on Saturday, the highlights of which are essentially that we finally arrived at the Gulf of Mexico. The water was chocolate milk brown because the Mississippi River empties into the gulf and the current brings it down to Galveston. Either way, new water body!!! Woo!

My stomach is full of cow...and turkey, and possibly some pig as well, but this is what happens when you Texas Bar-B-Q. Our CS host here in Houston very generously took us out for dinner and after beers and I have both never seen so much meat or such cheap beer in one place before. $1.75 for margarita glasses full of BEER! Gah!

Anywho, we’ve had some pretty awesome times here in Texas so far. Our first CS experience in Abilene started off with a viewing of “Factory Girl” inside the Contemporary Art gallery downtown which included both popcorn and soda on the house! How can you say no to free stuff? You can’t! We then went to a pub and I had some of the best conversation in recent memory with one of our CS’ers friends, whom I shall name Not George Bush’s Daughter.

She just recently had been traveling in Europe and now that she’s back in Texas, she can’t stand it! She told me that she spent a large portion of her travels getting past the barrier that people automatically put up against Americans; she does not agree with the war in Iraq, she’s not George Bush’s Daughter, she’s not an asshole, and she just wants to meet and hang out with other open minded individuals.

I then told her all about the Canadian imperative to mess with American’s whenever possible, Rick Mercer style (for four out of five years of High School I went to Idaho for Jazz Band, and our favourite pass time was acting beside ourselves, talking in excited French saying things like “I need to go to the Bathroom!” and “Can I go to my locker!!!” just to see the confused look on people’s faces. Also we harassed the employees of a particular Baskin Robins into believing that Canada’s national drink was called Maple Beer, an ingenious concoction of Maple Syrup and Root  Beer [once made was actually disgusting] and that they should be ashamed for not carrying that flavour of ice cream). Not George Bush’s Daughter laughed heartily at this and said that she was not surprised in the least.

The next day our CS host, who I have not named yet...let’s call her Baloo’s Mistress, was out for most of the day, but her arrival was announced to us in the form of laughter.

“I giant flock of birds must have landed in the pecan tree next to the van...because it is COVERED in shit!”

We looked, we gasped, we cringed.

Bebe looked as if she had fought a furious campaign against several thousand shit-filled avian creatures and, though lived to tell about it, still showed the battle wounds of being shit-bombed from all angles.

We chose to ignore the poo for the time being and went out for Chinese food, which was delicious but did not quite numb the pain of the poo storm that hit the van. We needed ice cream and movies.

The rest of our evening was spent drinking wine, eating Neapolitan ice cream, munching on kettle corn, and watching Religulous.

Our last day in Abilene we decided to go downtown, even though we knew it was going to be dead on a Saturday, our hopes were high that something would be open.

As it was, The Texas Store exposed us to lots of paraphernalia revolving around the “Don’t Mess with Texas” theme and various other Texan delights...including the home grown, dimpled, well mannered boy behind the counter. His dimple struck me dumb for a few moments, as it was coupled with one of those crooked, startlingly white, smiles that for some reason cause members of the female persuasion to lose feeling in their knee caps and falter under the strain of maintaining the appearance of normalcy. I bought several things from this boy; I regret nothing.

We were considering staying in Abilene for the weekend as Not George Bush’s Daughter offered to put us up, but we’ve been spending a lot of days just “killing time” for some reason. It vaguely made sense when we were going to see my father in Arizona, but now that we’re two months (for me) into the trip and so close to Louisiana, this just doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore. We decided to forge ahead and went in search of a little town called Hico.

Baloo’s Mistress told us about this little restaurant that is in Hico Texas called the Koffee Kup Restaurant (formerly the Koffee Kup Kafe [KKK!!!]) and because we are on a never-ending search for pie, this seemed like a good place as any to find some...or get killed. Either or.

We ended up driving all the way to Waco, Texas after our mediocre meal at the Koffee Kup (pie was alright) and parked in another Wal-Mart for the night.

We woke up on Sunday with a mission. Before leaving Abilene we checked the schedule for the Olympics and discovered the last event on the last day...was men’s hockey; Canada vs. The US, EPIC! Our goal before leaving Waco was to find a bar that would play the game for us. I donned my “True North Strong and Free” shirt proudly and we walked into just such a bar. However, clearly Olympic hockey is no where near as important as NASCAR. We were given a TV, but no sound, just the blasting of the metal music station and the NASCAR announcers were all us silly Canadians could hope for.

Thought the game was awesome, it was strange to be in a place that was just didn’t care. I called my mother who told me that she called my sister after the game and her voice was hoarse from cheering. I watched a bunch of videos on facebook that people had filmed of the OT goal and the subsequent pandemonium that occurred out on Vancouver. The whole city was alive with shouting, honking, and excitement...and we were in Waco.

Anywho, like a said, we are now in Houston, and I will update more when we actually go out and do stuff.

I don’t know if it’s true that everything is bigger in Texas, but so far everything is flatter. TJ and I crossed the state line between New Mexico and Texas three days ago and the further inland we get the more things appear stereotypically Texan; there are oil wells, cows, and tractor equipment everywhere. I went inside a gas station to ask for directions and the man behind the counter gave them to me thusly:

“Check it out right?” (Imagine a southern drawl here) “Ya’ll go left at the stop sign and merge on down to the interstate. Five miles down the road there’ll be the Wal-Mart.”

It took everything in my power not to dither and gawk like the tourist I am. I always knew I had a thing for accents, but it’s a strange sensation to become ridiculous in the presence of a drawl. I think it’s because the US looks an awfully lot like various parts of Canada and therefore one expects to hear the words coming out of people’s mouths spoken in a Canadian tongue. When it comes out all Texas-like, it’s like you’ve been transported to another plane of existence and nothing makes sense anymore...except for giggling. That always makes sense.

Anywho, we are in Abilene right now, and in a few days we’re going to be heading in a Southerly direction to meet up with a CS’er who lives on a ranch...in Texas. WHERE ARE WE!!!?? Our ultimate destination in Texas will be Houston where TJ has some friends that we’re to meet up with. My main imperative in Houston will consist of, if possible, a NASA space launch, and Six Flags. I love to Roller Coaster, at any time of the year or any place on earth.

I shall depart now, in search of a ten gallon hat and cowboys in tight wranglers. We be in Texas ya’ll!

There are not many things that I am frightened of. I have intense dislike for various creepy crawly bugs (namely stink bugs and almost all spiders) and do that obnoxious “You get away from me you bastard” talking to wasps thing, but otherwise I am only fearful of things most people ought to be (psychopaths and the like).

That being said, I have one irrational fear: aliens. My mother thought it would be a hilarious way to desensitize me and my sister to horror films by letting us watch the tail end of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” one night and I have never fully recovered. M. Knight Shyamalan’s “Signs” terrifies me to the point where I can’t even think of any part of the movie before I go to sleep or I will be up all night thinking various shadows in my room are aliens trying to probe me.

So why, one might ask, am I in Roswell, New Mexico? TJ is a lover of the X-Files and though the thought of aliens abducting me and doing who knows what to my unsuspecting body terrifies me more than  black cats from hell plaguing me in Tombstone, the town of Roswell has made this whole alien thing rather impotent. The streetlights are green globes with black orbs for eyes. The McDonalds is shaped like a flying saucer, and similarly the Wal-Mart is green instead of blue and has murals of aliens and flying saucers on its walls. The aliens in these renderings are so cute I am inclined to barf all over myself, and yet the alien-terror has not affected me much.

We went to the UFO museum today and the only part that got me was near the end they had a wax rendering of the alien body that was supposedly found in the wreckage of the “Roswell Incident” in 1947. Thing is creepy, I don’t care who you are, and if I ever saw one of those little buggers, after the paralyzing fear subsided, I think I might be moved to extreme violence. Aliens are the embodiment of terror, man!

Other than my irrational side coming out in full force, the most notable bit about our stay here in Roswell so far is that it's freaking snowing. I hear it is like a balmy spring up in Kamloops BC, and in the desert...in New Mexico...it is snowing. What. The. Hell????? So not O.K., especially as we are sleeping sans plug tonight in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Last night was merely cold and TJ and I put aside our notions of heterosexuality in favour of sharing body heat, even under three layers of blanket-y warmth. Who knew roughing it would be applied to staying at Wal-Mart? This is also in addition to the van’s fridge ceasing its functional nature; we are now lacking tasty food AND heat. Eff you New Mexico!!!

In any case, it is nearly time to brave the storm. I sincerely hope that the aliens haven’t sent this weather as a decoy so they might look for future probe subjects in a stealthier manner. That would really suck...more than this unseasonal weather.

I am sad it is not March. Not because the weather hasn’t been warm, because it’s been stinking hot, and definitely not because I’m wanting time to go faster on the Van Plan…but because I definitely missed out on a Civil War re-enactment on the hike with my dad. WHO DOES THAT! I’m hoping for more of this when we get to the Deep South. So much ridiculousness…

Otherwise, hike with dad was delightful. We went to a state park called Picacho Peak and did a mild little nature trail hike around the different cacti. My hiking attire was so meant for rock climbing…

We stopped on the way back to Arizona City at a gift shop called “The Nut House” that sold, as you may have guessed, nuts. Unfortunately, the state of Arizona has decided to close the majority of its state parks (probably to pay for all the freaking PRISONS that are everywhere) including the Tombstone Courthouse, and Picacho Peak and possibly the Kartchner Caverns (which we did not go to, but look cool anyway!). The elderly woman who has ran The Nut House for over a decade will be closing it next week in the wake of the parks closing announcement, in favour of “catching up on 12 years of housework”.

We hung out with my dad and his girlfriend for another day before we packed up and went back, again (AGAIN!) to Casa Grande and our second home outside of Canada, the Wal-Mart.

Yesterday we got up, felt like crap, hung out in the van, and therefore left the “Big House” rather late. We found it hard to care; sleeping in is wonderful.

We drove back along our familiar route on the I-10 through Oro Valley, Tucson, Benson, all places that we’ve been, seen and done everything we planned on doing in those areas. So far its really the only backtracking we’ve done, and I think we have been inundated with a lot of strip mall/Wal-Mart scenarios that are comforting in the sense that you go in and you immediately know where the bathrooms and the produce department it, but also monotonous in the sense that no matter where in the world you are, you can walk into one of these stores and see the same stuff in the same spot (or possibly a mirror store where everything is on the exact opposite side of the store you were previously in). Needless to say when we finally passed “The Thing?” and on to new territory, a momentary victory cry was needed from both of us.

We went through an entire tank of gas, but that took us well over the state line, into Las Cruces (where we promptly locked our doors), north along the Rio Grande and finally to our next destination: Truth or Consequences.

Back in the heyday of game shows there was one hosted by Ralph Edwards who propositioned any town in the US to change its name to that of the game show, and every year they would film an episode in the town. Hot Springs, New Mexico is now Truth or Consequences…and it’s interesting.

The game show, long over, has basically left T or C with an interesting name on the maps, but the original name of Hot Springs is actually what’s pretty cool about the place. There are several spas along the main road that offer private hotel rooms with large baths that you just turn a valve and hot mineral water fills your tub. TJ and I took a tour of one with our CS host here in T or C but opted to leave the mineral baths for less hot days. 

The other notable thing about T or C is that about 30 miles outside of town Richard Branson is building a Spaceport and plans to launch the first Virgin Galactic flight in 2011...for REAL! The things rich people will do with their money...

We have returned from the south! At the moment I’m sitting in a trailer park in a trailer that one of my dad’s friends owns…with my dad, in Arizona City. It’s a bit strange meeting up with my father while still being on the Van Plan, like somehow the world just imploded upon itself to bring us together at the same place and the same time outside of the normal parameters of our routines.

In any case, to recap: Bisbee was a lovely little town. TJ and I managed to severely muck up our sleep schedules by sleeping until an unmentionable hour after our ghost hunting/hunted experience and therefore ended up missing a lot of the day. In larger towns, like Tucson and Casa Grande, this is no problem because most of the businesses are open until about nine; in small little Bisbee, everything closes at six and late night activities are limited mostly to the bars.

The first was a short film about road kill…but not just about road kill, starring road kill. A diverse collection of deceased animals in various states of decay ranging from freshly killed to petrified highway pancakes, were used as marionettes to act out the loose plot. I erupted several times into short bursts of laughter, mostly because I was too horrified to do anything else and sitting with my mouth gaping got old after the first five minutes.  I have forgotten the name of this little gem…something with “road kill” in it I’m sure…

The second film was called “The Bisbee Cannibal Club”, and was basically about a group of cannibals who only ate annoying, poetry-spouting, vegetarians, and a group of (animal) meat-eaters who decided to hunt them down. Bad effects, loose plot, inaudible dialogue aside, it was still better than the knock-off Twilight spoof called “Taintlight” I bought at a thrift store in Morro Bay. (A note to the makers of Taintlight: seriously? HOW COULD YOU SCREW THAT UP! Edward is an emo, pea-coat wearing, sparkly vampire and Bella is a big stupid whiner! If ever a movie was made to be ridiculed it’s Twilight [my love for said ridiculous movie shall not be commented on]).

Our third day in Bisbee, we (even with a valiant but failed attempt at getting up at a decent hour) went on the 3:30PM tour of the Copper Queen Mine, and rode around under ground on a ridiculously fun, battery operated train. I am easily amused.

Mines have a smell; it’s a combination of rock dust, water, and something I can’t quite pinpoint but I’m sure has something to do with winds bellowing from deep within the excavated crevices of the earth that were never supposed to be exposed in such a way by man. This smell, when we entered the Copper Queen Mine, immediately sent me back to my home town, which boasts it’s own mine and tour, which I used to go on in the summer to escape the heat. It was strange going into the earth in a different mine and it was very difficult for me not to point out inane little factoids to TJ about stalagmites forming on the ceiling and my supremely un-cool knowledge of iron pyrite.

We spent the rest of our time in Bisbee exploring a little of the town and relaxing out at Metal Man’s casa, before heading back on the road. We decided to go back through Tombstone during the day, which was ultimately less cool than at night mostly for the same reasons Quartzite was less cool than expected: Senior Citizens. I don’t know if it’s a commentary on the sorts of things TJ and I find interesting enough to visit, but there always seems to be an abundance of rickety old people wherever we go. We’re always the youngest people in the vicinity, and oddly enough, in the smallest vehicle. (All old people in the States drive enourmous, bus-sized, RV’s. We hate them and their loud generators and wide turning angles…and…*cough* yeah.)

We continued on out of Tombstone and stayed the night at yet another Wal-Mart in Tucson where I had my first Krispy Kreme experience (it was both delightful and fattening, a dangerous combination). The next day, we went north to a place called Globe to kill another day or so before my dad arrived. We, of course (owing to our continuingly bad sleep schedule and lack of timepiece/alarm clock) left Tucson rather late and pulled into Globe at around 9:30PM, starving and hoping to find either a secluded residential street to park in or another Wal-Mart.

As luck would have it, we saw billboards for a Wally World, and spied a rather magnificent looking old-school diner called Jerry’s attached to a Knights Inn that called to us and to our hungry bellies. For ten dollars I had a pot roast dinner with mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables, a salad and a piece of corn bread…I died a little. Also, the never-ending search for pie halted at Jerry’s in the form of a slice of coconut-crème heaven…

Full of food, lacking internet as usual, and clad in pajamas, I went out to brosser les dents, and mid  stroke I looked up across the deserted parking lot into the eyes of evil. A black cat sat staring at me amidst a sea of empty parking spaces; we were in the middle of nowhere as most Wal-Marts are on the outskirts of town, so clearly the only rational reason this cat would be sitting and staring at me in such an unhinged way…is that it followed me from Tombstone and is actually Satan’s minion. Black Cats are on my “No List” at the moment, I’m sure this will pass as soon as I’m back in Canada…

We were hoping the city of Globe would have a slightly more entertaining downtown area than other towns we’ve been in that haven’t even had a downtown core, but again we were there on an odd day, several things were closed for the day and even more closed for good. We did go into a fantastic antique store that was out of an old fifties style house off the main street and had all of the antiques set up as if they were supposed to be in each room of the house. The kitchen had all the kitchen appliances in it; the living room had all the furniture. There were two particularly delightful rooms off to the side, one comprised mostly of old hats from the forties and fifties (possibly before) and the other was a tea room.

For anyone who does not know me, I love tea. It is my drink of choice and my roommate Mel and I have held both an old Victorian tea party and a Mad Hatter tea party, complete with costumes, flowery tea cups and silver services. I walked into the antique tea room and almost collapsed in a fit of wanting to have another tea party…possibly in the van…possibly including Roadkill Bobby. I don’t know that TJ would be up for such ridiculousness, but who knows! Mmmm, tea…

Anywho, we’re just chillin’ out in Arizona City at the moment. My dad and I are off to do a bit of hiking tomorrow and when we’re done here, we’re getting the hell out of Arizona! Here we come New Mexico! Please be less flat on your interstates!