Jessie Goes….

As anyone who has read enough of these blogs knows by now… I have trouble writing those last few days of each trip. But, instead of a final story on Birmingham and the trip back, I’ll give you a few factoids postscript style!

Here’s some facts, figures and musing as I find myself back in Tampa today:

Total Miles Traveled: 2047

Average Price of Gas/Gallon April, May 2008(Most Expensive): $3.45 ($3.59)

Average per day cost in gas: $30 bucks

Average Lodging Cost: $75

Most Expensive Lodging Cost after tax: $130 (Birmingham, AL)

Cheapest Lodging Cost: $18 (Lafayette, LA)

Things I wish my rental car had: Cruise Control. 50mpg. GPS.

Moon Pies encountered (eaten): 3 (2.5)

Number of Days with rain: 2

Number of Nights spent in tin shack during tornado warnings: 1

Number of Times car was up to its headlights in flash flood: 1

Number of Days with Temps above 80 degrees F, despite warnings: 1

Best (Worst) Views of the Mississippi River: Vicksburg, MS (River Road, LA)

Number of Times ate Red Beans and Rice: 4

Number of Times ate Oysters: 3

Number of Days where no fried food was included: 1 – there was a flood and tornados, didn’t eat dinner, ate moonpies which to my knowledge are not deepfried.

Alligators spotted: 25+

Great Blue Herons: 5

Snakes: 2

Vampires: 0

Boat breakdowns: 1

Times when Mapquest or Google Maps was way wrong: 4

Times when roadsigns said left, but meant right or straight: 6

Times I crossed the Mississippi (times by accident): 6 (2)

Number of hours of driving Sprint got zero phone service: 8

Voodoo dolls acquired: 2. watch out people, I haven’t assigned em yet!

One other quick note on general knowledge gained: here is a list of words New Orleans residents really really pronounce “unusually”: Chartres Street (said Charters), Burgundy Street (said Bur-GUN-dy), Vieux Carre (said voo ka-RAY), Calliope (said Cal-e-OPE)

And Finally, the basic route: Tampa, FL > Apalachicola, FL > Pensacola, FL > New Orleans, LA > Vacherie, LA > Breaux Bridge, LA > Lafayette, LA > Baton Rouge, LA > Natchez, MS > Vicksburg, MS > Clarksdale, MS > Oxford, MS > Tupelo, MS > Birmingham, AL > Montgomery, AL > Tampa, FL

Growing up in southern Virginia the word for uttering obscene phrases was called “cussing.” This was something I rarely did there, and I’ve always attributed this to having much younger siblings in the household with a penchant for uttering these phrases back to you at the most inappropriate of times, to the mortification of visitors.

Then, I moved to NYC, where cussing had never been heard of, but CURSING is an art form. On the trading floors across New York 4-letter words were as common a part of the vernacular as hello, I need coffee, and buy/sell. Elsewhere in the City they also flew out in casual conversations with rapid fluidity.

Now, even back in NYC, my non-trading floor self really tried to keep that language in check – my deep Virginia roots still cringed every time they heard a woman say something, “unbecoming.” Sexist, perhaps, but southern gentility still made some headway into Virginia. Anyhow, I generally reserved it for driving, where I’ll be d@mn*d, j-ck@ss drivers really got to me, tried to kill me often, and let face it – only a passenger or two was ever the worse for wear, and my potty mouthed self faded back into the recesses after just a few minutes.

The entire point of this being, this is the same girl now driving through Mississippi on an actual schedule, with an actual appointment, with someone important.

And, this is the same Mississippi of just a few days previous, only it had lulled me into amnesia by the amazing friendliness of the people, and two days of reasonable driving, with no turns (left or right) required.

D@mn! Sh*t! F— ( I still don’t like that one)!! WHO DESIGNED THE ROAD SYSTEM HERE??

I won’t get into it (die, Tupelo, die!) but suffice it to say, my nearly 2 months of southern “reconditioning” **(about 85% of the time these days I have stopped wishing dead on people, for instance) crumpled completely under the utterly inefficient stupidity.

Get me to Birmingham (lords name in vain), cause, like every good Southerner and NYer, I NEED A DRINK!

**I should note however, I did buy 2 voodoo dolls in New Orleans, so stay out of my way people, I’m not cured yet!

Totally drenched and fearing for my computers life, once again I streaked across what used to be the lawn to my little piece of sharecropper heaven. It was starting to get windy out too, I noticed and no sooner had I been in the door 30 seconds and the power went out. I stared out the window at the insane rain hitting the panes. If it kept up there would be a foot or more of standing water out there.

The lights came back on after about half an hour, and given the increased crappiness of the weather, I decided it was no food for the night, I would just get by on water and 2 moonpies!

I fooled with the old TV, which did get some channels, and as the wind was now really cranking outside and rattling things, I found the local weather. And thats when it dawned on me. We are in serious tornado country, and this continuous line of thunderstorms we’d been having for the past 5 hours was just the kind of thing that causes those things. The news confirmed my suspicions…there had been touch downs all over THIS county, 3 were already dead across the state line in Arkansas, and the weatherman was firmly insisting that all people watching this broadcast get into a safe room, or be prepared at a moments notice to go to the safest part of the house. I looked around me at the corregated tin roofing, and barnwood that surrounded me. “aw, crap (that isn’t what I said, but this is a G rated website)”. There is NO safe place in a shack. I wandered around and decided the shower in the bathroom would have to be it for me. It wasn’t really funny.

An hour passed by and those instances when the power was on, I watched the weatherman pointing out windsheer (it was currently 65mph right outside the window… my car was looking pitiful out there, and its left front wheelwell was totally under water. I was so glad it was a rental). The ground was fully a lake now, and the corregated tin roofs of the barn I could see out the window was flapping up and down in the wind making a racket and inspiring images of ripping off and coming whirling through the air wizard of oz style sheering my head clean off as I looked into the darkness.

Another hour and it was midnight and I just couldn’t take it anymore. My safe place was going to have to be my bed, because I was exhausted, hungry, and still never did get online :). (wifi was definitely out now). So I closed my eyes, visions of floodwater floating my bed across the room and tornados blowing my walls down were dancing through my head.

I woke up in the morning, still alive, still in bed, and all was quiet. A lot wet outside, but the sky was a perfect sunny blue, as if it was pretending it hadn’t done a thing the night before. Power lines were down but the water was receding. I spoke with Bill, the owner who was thanking his lucky stars that morning. Me too. I got in my very wet car, whose floorboards had been flooded, and headed outta town.

So, back to the Shack Up Inn, this cool place down the highway from Clarksdale.    All was well there, after seeing Andy off, it was barely 4 o’clock, so I ventured down to the main shack to talk to the owner, computer under arm, as the Wifi wasn’t working.  The guy who was sent up to help me with it didn’t know what a WEP key was, (argh mississippi!), and was insisting the cable company was closed for the evening (which could be true…the local police station was only open 8am-4:30).

Fully missing the main shack I wandered up to the biggest barnlike structure (it was all confusing with all these barnwood and corregated tin structures), primarily because it started to pour on me and my poor wifi-less computer with little warning, thunder being thunderous, pelting water bouncing off tin like liquid bbs.  It was a fast run, and I was greeted on the porch of this structure, which I was beginning to believe wasn’t part of the Shackup Inn,  by a bunch of locals who were out to watch the storm, nothing else better to do.   Chatting is a necessity down here and an artform.  People are great storytellers, and my northern sense of reticence when talking to strangers (hence wasting their time and my time) was seriously melting.   It didn’t hurt that I have been in a constant state of “nowhere I really have to be” recently.

They all greeted me politely, offered me a beer (which I decline, dripping wet with the computer and cord still clutched to my chest).   They then started some general conversation with me, “weathers looking wet, where ya from”?, while eyeing up the computer oddly attached to my body.   Finally the youngest of the group, a clean faced 20 year old, I guessed, gestured to the computer and said “so, I’m guessing there is some reason you were taking your computer for a walk in the rain?” His accent was very southern, but clear and deep, the drawled words having a soothing effect.

I smiled sheepishly, and related my story about no Wifi, lack of WEP knowledge, cable company closed, and the fact that I was originally intending to end up at the main shack where I was hoping to hook directly to the modem.   “what is this place anyhow?”      All the men replied at once “why your at ol’ Hoskins Commissary”.   And they started to go on to explain, when the young man broken in…  “well, now that sounds like ol’ Guy jus wanted to git on home… let me call up that Cable company, I know some people, and I heard that Guy had put some encryption on it, I think he’us scared folks at the commissary would be stealing wifi.. but fact is, is only been up 3 days, and you ain’t the first to complain”…  he had his cellphone out of his pocket already dialing as he finished this sentence, “evening, John… got a little probably with the Wifi WEP at the Shackup….”     Before 3 minutes was out he had his friend John promise to just go ahead and disable the WEP key and any other kind of encryption on the account.       Mississippi…the last state in the union not given over to mass paranoia, passwords, and security questions to fix a problem quickly.   No matter that Guy HAD gone on home and the entire system he’d created had been disabled in minutes by a young guy drinking at the commissary next door!      “Miss, sounds like you’ll be up in next few minutes or so.”  Ha, you know what they say about honey vs. vinegar.  It actually works here!

“So” another of the men broke in “you ready to come drink with us now?” he smiled as some harmless older men do when faced with the prospect of the company of younger women.  “well, I’ll tell you what, I still need to get over to that main shack so I can see that its up and working, but then I’ll come right back over.”   With that, they graciously showed me the back door to the commissary (a massive performance space it turns out, with a good little bar on the side), which made the trip about 25 feet only.   It was starting to hail.  Crap.

Bill, one of the partners of the Shackup was in the ‘office’ area of the main shack, chatting with another local when I came screaching in wet and still technologically heavy.   “Hey, I heard you was having some problems with the internet”  he said.  “Your welcome to just use the main computer.”   I was offered another beer, I took another beer, and got to chatting with the him, and the local who was there solely to shoot the breeze.

2 hours later I came out, my head swimming with local lore and legends as well as the a literary conversation which was well above my head (I was reading Duma Key, by Steven King at the time, but I figured I’d probably better not admit it).   Its something else about Mississippi which is mystifying.  Many of them are seriously well read.    Oxford, just about an hour east, was the home and birthplace of William Faulkner, among others, so the literary pedigree stands out along the wide mainstreets, gracious homes, and town squares.    It just feels somewhat odder to have this type of conversation in a big tin shack decorated in old coffee cans.   A Dutch couple rain in out of the rain asking for lodging as I was leaving.  The place even had international appeal.

Now it was more than raining, it was a sheer wall of water outside, and me and my computer dashed across to the backdoor of the commissary and into the kitchen there.   Soon it wouldn’t matter about the wifi because the computer would be dead from too many baths.  I found all the locals bellied up to the bar listening with some interest to an Australian blues lover whom had decided to live in Clarksdale for the next 2 months to write about it.   I joined them for hours, realizing part way through that the commissary wasn’t actually opened, the owners were just “roasting some butts” for a wedding the next day, and nobody seemed to have anywhere to go in the rain… so me and the gang just drank beer and entertained each other as we waited for the rain to abate.

The husband and wife team  (the wife being the Hoskins which was the name of the farm before it because the shack up inn and the commissary), are super nice but actually HATE I mean like Hatfields and McCoys HATE the owners of the Shackup Inn.   Its a long running feud, which by the sound of it, has long ago left reality of what the real problem is, and is now fought completely on principle as each party seems to continue the feud, and truly believes the other side is a)evil and b)past the point of no return.   At some point it sounds like there’s going to be all out war and probably both the Hoskins commissary and the shack up inn will be torn to pieces in the doing.   So, clearly though they abut each other by about 25 feet, there is no feeling of working together.  Its too bad too, because if they did work together I can’t imagine how much more successful they’d be.   The commissary would always have bar guests, and because Ma Hoskins owns all the land around the shackup inn (long story, but she originally sold it to the guys to begin with and they were partners), the Inn could perhaps get more property and put up more shacks.   As it stands now, the Shackup pretends the Commissary doesn’t exist, and it will be over a few dead bodies before the Shackup Inn can acquire 2 inches more space from the Hoskins farm.

Regardless it made for some good speculation as the butt roasting and beer drinking continued.   Finally, around 9pm, we all decided that it wasn’t ever going to stop raining, and dominos wouldn’t deliver.   It looked like a lake out there, and I think the owners had had enough of us on their day off, so I said goodbye to the gang, who was headed out to some coon lodge, juke joint in a field somewhere to listen to blues the way God intended, whereas I was weighing my options and heading back to my shack.

Totally drenched and fearing for my computers life, once again I streaked across what used to be the lawn to my little piece of sharecropper heaven.  It was starting to get windy out too, I noticed and no sooner had I been in the door 30 seconds and the power went out.    I stared out the window at the insane rain and hitting the panes.   If it kept up there would be a foot or more of standing water out there.

A little over an hour north of Vicksburg starts the land of the Delta Blues. Clarksdale, MS is the small town version of Memphis when it comes to this subject, as many a local has made it to legendary status in the medium.

Clarksdale itself hosts the Delta Blues Museum, and Morgan Freeman’s “Ground Zero” where blues can be heard every night, and you can even stay in the hostel above if you don’t mind music seeping everywhere.

Clarksdale is also somewhat of a mixed bag. Impression-wise that is. It is definitely the land where old jalopies go to live out their final days, many of them making it far longer than anyone else in the country could possibly assume. A rusted blue Dodge Dart, with a doorframe that didn’t quite close, missing paint on the trunk and sounded like it was missing a muffler, ran on by me as I drove down the highway, clunky wildly, with two young un’s hands and heads sticking out the window waving at me as they passed. It definitely has some of that ‘stereotypical picture’ most non-Mississippians think of when picturing the deep south. But really, its just that, a stereotype, because even here, there are tons of layers. People are just as smart (and stupid), just as wealthy (and just as poor), and just as complicated, but they have different priorities. Whats important to them is vastly different than anything I’m used to.

My friend Andy, (who renamed himself Paul in college, but I still haven’t adjusted to it), currently lives in Memphis and was gracious enough to meet me for a few beers and a quick tour of the Delta Blues Museum. I would say that unless you have a huge prior knowledge of the blues this place is difficult, as it just looks like a bunch of people whom you’ve never heard of singing songs you’ve never heard of. But still, it was a must do. So we did, then retired to the porch of my shack for the night. I can now say I know very little more about the blues than I started the day out with. Which is not something to be proud of…maybe its just the day and I just don’t feel like trying very hard.

Thats right, tonight I am staying at the Shack Up Inn, a collection of old sharecropper shacks from the days when sharecropping was alive and well. They amount to corregated tin shacks with wood beams, some ‘local’ decor, and a barn which houses several other shack rooms. Befittingly, off in the distance is an abandoned silo, and a few rusted out ford trucks from 1950 are lying around with some old rusted farm equipment all over the grounds. Another good touch is the moonpies, one per pillow on the bed. I think I ate my first moonpie in about 20 years in Apalachicola just a while back, and now there were two more on the horizon! It was going to be a good day!

There was not another soul to be found on my way home from the restaurant as the road turned down the steep slope to the old mansion, and the wind was picking up significantly. Chilly! I parked at the iron gate on the side of the house, as the owner had insisted; it was ajar and slowly making that metal on metal groan that old gates do in certain weather and on Scooby Doo cartoons. I grabbed the heavy latch as I passed quickly through, and pulled the the gate shut with a solid clank behind me. “Good luck, ol car, you’re on your own”.

I crept as silent as possible up the back brick pathway in the heavy gloom, through the garden and towards the glass enclosed conservatory, the keys clutched in my hand. As I made it to the door, looking through the glass walls I could see little lamp lights all on, scattered throughout the house, as if I were late for a dinner party! There was definitely not a light on when I’d left earlier. I looked at my watch, 8pm. “Hello?” (echo echo), Hello? My footsteps bounced into the long hallway, there was nobody here but us chickens. Hmmm, I though, that is one heck of a timer system they’ve got worked in here for such an old house. I wonder if they all go off at a certain time too?

The house was quiet and empty. Really quiet and really empty, and lit in a fashion that was positively forelorn. I hightailed it to my room and locked myself in. Which, of course, was ridiculous, as we all know… THERE IS NO ONE ELSE HERE. But the hall the conservatory and the parlor all seemed creeky, and I still had that feeling that somehow the guy from the bar was waiting outside. Unfortunately, before I had realized he was a mega scary, the bartender had asked where I was staying and I told him (and anyone else who might be listening). Good grief, I would be the first one dead in a slasher flick…could I do any more stupid things? I looked at the ridiculous boltlock on the door thinking if he was in the room I was so screwed.

I sat on my bed, in the dim light, briefly trying to recall which room had the secret passage to the library in Clue. What would the place have been like if other guests had been here? Would we have gathered in the drawing room for brandy, telling tall tales until the lights went out in a crack of lightning, to find moments later that the butler was now dead on the floor? Maybe its better that I am the only one here. I was smiling to myself at this bit of ridiculousness of course. I really couldn’t get over how amazingly spooky this place was acting, it seemed almost a set up.. and I’ll be d@mned if it wasn’t starting to get FREEZING in here. Shivering I pulled out my computer and cellphone and pulled down the covers. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do for the next hours, but staying right here wasn’t seeming that bad. Going out to find the air conditioner control seemed a bit out of the question at the moment.

My heartrate had ratcheted down, as no crazed lunatic from the bar was smashing an ugly mug in the window, nothing was under the bed or in the tub, but I called Rob just to go through the tale, as I was feeling that a good talk to someone while I was in here would make things seem back to normal.

Ring. Ring. The receiver picked up. “hello?” but before hello could actually get all the way out, the phone dropped dead. I looked at my phone, curious faced, and it seemed all well, 4 of 5 bars, power on, bright blue screen all aglow. I dialed again. It picked up, but went directly to voicemail. I dialed again, 2 minutes later, then 5 minutes later. Voicemail voicemail, voicemail. I finally left one “hi honey, its me, for some reason I’m not getting you, give me a call when you get the message”. A half an hour went by, no call back. It was getting unbearably cold in here, and aside from being annoyed that I couldn’t call out (its like the old house had faulty wiring that was affecting my boyfriends phone), I was getting restless. It also turned out that there wasn’t a single three pronged plug in the entire room. My computer was going to boot up and have about 2 minutes before shutting itself back down again.

I was going to have to go back outside.

The wind was rattling the mullioned window panes all around the house as I stepped out of the Library.. it was 20 degrees warmer out here, so I left the door wide open, computer and cable under my arm in search of a 21st century plug. After 2 hours in the house with no bad happenings, things weren’t looking so creapy afterall, so I decided it was time to take a video of this place to capture ‘the ambiance’.

Walking slowly into each of the dim rooms with the camera I did a double take when I came to one room… not only did it have the most haunted picture of a girl dressed in white in it, but it also had a gaslights?? I could have sworn there were none in here. At that moment a heard a clank and what sounded like a few steps. I stopped, heartrate back up again and looked around the corner at the back door.. nothing. Nothing at the front door either.

“I should go back in my room” I thought to myself, but didn’t go. I started filming again, walking with my back towards the backdoor. As I was staring at the camera LCD pretty intently, trying to keep it steady, I failed to notice the dark figure behind me. I heard a noise, a soft noise, and then what seemed like a crack of a floorboard! I jerked, heart in my throat, almost dropping the camera, and whirled around to find a figure just five feet behind me in the shadow……

Suffice it to say, I survived. 🙂

What I did:
Corners Mansion Inn, prop. Macy Whitney, 601-636-7421 (and she really is a lovely lady, and knows her Vicksburg history, and the history of the house.. I had breakfast with her in grand style, and she reports she has never seen a ghost, though many people have come to look!)

AND if you really want to get a feel for the house, check out the video posted! 🙂 Its the one I was taking right at the very end here…. complete with sudden stoppage! And keep the sound on for the full effect!

Its not really just the house thats a little creepy in Vicksburg. The whole town seems a little anxious. A poor desperate anxious. And there are a lot of poorer areas of the south don’t get me wrong, but they seem to have a gracious poorness about them. Nothing sinister or dangerous. Just not very weathly, is all.

Not here, and I’m not sure if the lady at the B&B put me in this mindframe or the town really is sending me the heebie-jeebies, but I definitely feel the inclination to look over my shoulder, like I’m in a dark alley. Like something is about to go bad wrong. And this is despite the historical buildings, pretty streets, bright sunshine and river views. It felt like getting off the subway in certain parts of Harlem, and having to walk a few blocks. Menacing even though nothing seems wrong on the surface.

There is one main street in the town which is completely refurbished, looks great, and has the old courthouse museum overlooking it on a large hill. I stopped there, parked my car, triple locked it, and went to check on the little restaurant which looked pretty upscale. I wasn’t taking chances. Eggplant parmesan was coming my way, after a few minutes at the bar, where everyone knew everyone elses name, and they were all roaring drunk. The town catholic priest was sitting on one side of me, and a guy who told me he was a pilot, a construction worker/architect, an army commando, a lawyer etc blah blah blah. You wouldn’t believe what an absolute absurd jerk this guy was… I tried to say as little as possible, as he took everything so far I stated (“oh, my boyfriend is a pilot too”) as a challenge to his manhood, he started in with “I don’t like your attitude, you are arrogant” to which I said “I haven’t said a single thing to you that was not pleasant hellos so, if you don’t want to talk to me thats fine with me, and I’m sorry you feel that way”. The man looked absolutely evil and angry. “you didn’t say anything arrogant, you just are, I can tell by the way you look. You know one day you’ll get whats coming to you” he whispered.

This man was creepy! Violent and herky jerky too. Whats funny is he did it only when the priest got up to talk to his other drinking buddy chums. Then he started with the straight staring at me, then ” I kind of like you, you are gorgeous and your about the only one in here intellgent enough to interact with me” oh brother. This guy was a psychotic, stuck on himself, lying, leerer on top of it. I wolfed down some of my eggplant, now not hungry in the slightest, and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. He had both physically threaten me and come on to me, in back to back sentences. I still had to pay, and I didn’t want to go out to my car a few blocks down the street and have him follow me. This sometimes, unfortunately, is what you have to put up with when you are a girl travelling alone, just saying hello sometimes can land you in a scary place before you know it. It hasn’t happened to me in a while, but several times in NYC I was on the receiving line of similar conduct as well.

Fortunately FINALLY the drunk priest sort of realized that this guy was really being a jerk and scaring me, and put himself between us. The bartender, the priest, and I continued have a good conversation, and I learned a lot about the town, and people through him… he was a character, but a really nice guy.

The jerk on the end of the bar was getting really drunk now, I mean fall off the stool drunk. Thank god. I tried my best not to provoke him farther which meant acknowledging him every few minutes or so, lest he say something like “what, you think your too good for me?” kind of stuff, and was praying he’d just get up and leave. It was getting dark outside.

As the priest rambled on, discussing the troubles with Vicksburg, which are numerous (clearly), the man finally left, as the sun was most likely right on the horizon. I paid, and rapidly tried to extricate myself from conversation…. now wishing I’d watched the direction the guy went.
Look left look right. Nope, no guy. I practically ran to my car.

Safe, holy moly. Not what I had in mind. And I still had the house to deal with… over the Mississippi I saw the last trace of sun vanish… we were in heavy twilight. I took a deep breath and looked in my rearview window….not only was there no guy, but there was nobody else, period. Anywhere. Seriously spooked I looked in my backseat before I took off…just in case I was in the Hitchcock zone.

I arrive in Vicksburg, perched high above the Mississippi river, about 2 hours to sunset, and make my way through the main street and down a steep enbankment towards the river to the bed and breakfast I’m stay at tonight.     It is surrounded by lovely gardens and feels old and staid.  The front gallery porch among the columns looks out onto the might river in the distance, the sun glinting off the water, and filtering in the cloud of heat rising from the hot southern afternoon.    A riverboat is off towards the right, “gambling” I think. 

The owner, a distinguished looking lady, greets me at the front door, and I fall back as I enter.   The hall is enormous.  The parlor, I can see into on the right from the front door is even bigger .  These rooms are stunning, and eloboratedly period.  The decor is almost like out of a movie, impossibly 1890.   No gaslights though.   This house is easily larger and grader scale then Oak Alley I visited a few days back.

The floor groans lowly as I step into the dimness of the hall.  My host says, stiffening, “ You were due at two” nodding her head a single time, she stares directly at me.

“oh, I didn’t realize….” I trail off not sure of myself, and how to explain the left/right phenomenon..

“it is no matter now, but I must leave immediately.   You are to be the only guest here tonight, and I have to pick up my husband”    She continues without acknowledgment from me “I will not be back before 9pm.   Sunset is at 7:30, and if you should go anywhere, I would suggest you return before then.”

There is a pause, as if its my turn to speak, I manage an ‘ehmmm’.

She turns her head toward the large front porch, “the sunsets over the Mississippi from the porch are not to be missed”….. with that she hands me the key though my hands are already filled with my bags, “one more thing, I would advise you not to go walking around here alone, definitely not at night”.     I look down to situate my bags, my keys and myself, and when I look up, she is gone.    I couldn’t say for sure exactly where she’d gone to, or which door she’d left from (wasn’t the front or the back!), but I was definitely alone.  I could hear my heartbeat in the stillness.

“No other guests” I thought as I dropped my stuff where I stood.  Nobody was there to see me or care that my bags were laying in the middle of the parlor floor.  I said out loud, who knows why, “how odd”. Echos. 

I mean, it is odd!  Alone, completely alone, in someones old drafty mansion, who you’ve met for less than a minute. I run my fingers across the ancient baby grand piano, standing dwarfed by the 14 foot tall windows and massive room, “mostly in tune” I say outloud again.   I saw the reflection of the room across the hall through an enormous gilted mirror whose glass bore that ghostly haze of age.

I giggle a little to myself, it was like being in one of those historic house tours but I could touch things, take pictures, tread on the carpet AND sit on the Victorian settee.  I’m alone and there’s nobody here to see me… I glance up at the 15 foot moulded ceilings, looking suddenly for hidden cameras at this thought.  I have watched waay too many Hollywood movies.  Nope, unless they were cleverly disguised in the eyes of those creepy portraits..(why do all old houses have these things!!?).. there were no cameras to be seen. 

“Cameras…” I laugh again at myself… this time outloud shaking my head as I roll my bag back to my room, imagining all the portrait eyes veering left as I walk down the hall.

My room was the old library, and still is the old library, complete with wood paneled walls, 2 floor to ceiling walls of books, fireplace, wingchairs, a globe, and a dead hunting trophy.  The only thing missing is the massive desk, replaced with an even more massive Eastlake bed and quarter canopy.     Dusty volumes stand guard as I quickly change and store my bags, while sepia toned photos stare back at me from their Victorian framed perches as I give them the once over, dialing Rob to tell him of this turn of events.

“She probably didn’t leave” he says off the bat “she’s somewhere watching you on camera”. 

“I’ve already thought of that, and I’d be a pretty boring subject,  by myself”.   I reply, “wish you were here, we’d be having a ball, walking around in our velvet smoking jackets, with our brandy snifters speaking in fake accents.  The place to ourselves.  I gotta get going though if I want to catch the sunset AND get something to eat, so I’ll call you later?”  Besides, I thought to myself… this place looked as secure as a pasta strainer, and given the ominous warning about walking around by myself, I WANTED to be back here before sunset for more than one reason: namely so I wouldn’t have to let myself into a total dark, soon to be creepy empty mansion.

There are days when all the romance of roadtrips goes out the window.   Lets say, when you fight with your computer to accept the free wifi WEP at your hotel for an hour yet it still never really gets on, so you finally wait in line to use theirs, and get the directions (very specific) from Google maps, so you won’t have the hassles of trying to find your way.     Leaving an hour late, I think, no big deal, as, really I don’t have specific plans, so  I stop off at Café des Amis in Breaux Bridge (I am headed back east, so its on the way), and have a great lunch… spicy broiled shrimp on a croissant (super flakey), with swiss cheese and lettuce.  Super duper good.  The place was homey and fun too.   They host a zydeco lunch on Sundays apparently, but being as it’s a Thursday, it wasn’t in the cards for me.    

So following my trusty Breaux Bridge to Vicksburg map I head East on I-10 towards Baton Rouge, Zydeco music blasting.   Unfortunately, my trusty map failed to tell me that you have to exit onto I-110 to actually catch 61, the route that leads to Vicksburg.   So, 20 minutes later when I’m out on the other side of Baton Rouge, I pull off into some random parking lot and try and pull up MAPQUEST  instead, on my blackberry, which takes 20 minutes of trying, because the search function is apparently on the fritz down at Mapquest.   Anyhow, finally I see the map after zooming like crazy and realize that I-110 is the way to go, and I keep the specific instructions, which say things like… take left exit 2, then take left exit (specifically) 8a!     I should have questioned the rarity of two Interstate left exits in a row.  Turns out that Mapquest is dead wrong too, as 61 is not on a left exit, and as a matter of fact is also not 8A.   deep sigh.     

So, now I’m 2 hours late getting to Vicksburg.  And still a lot of time on the road ahead.    Historic Rt 61 isn’t half bad though, lots of nice plantationy houses, tiny towns, it’s a nice highway, rural enough, beautiful forests, not tons of traffic… would be roadtrip heaven and without my multistop tour of Baton Rouge, I’d have been quite pleased.    In Nachez, (pronounce like matches, not like natCHEZZZ-for some reason all the locals keep telling me this, as if they have some psychic ability which knows I’m about to pronounce it wrong.  They are right, I am.. but still), I picked up the Natchez (again, like matches) – Trace trail, a top notch parkway which went all the way to Vicksburg.    It’s the prettiest thing I’ve seen driving around here.  And no traffic.   I’d say roadtrip-wise, this isn’t to be missed.   Yes, I know its just a road, but trust me.

Of course, to end my lovely day of driving, almost redeemed by Natchez (matches) – Trace Parkway, I get back on rt 61 which comes into Vicksburg and T’s into I-20 West and East, take your pick.. well because there was a sign that said, “DOWNTOWN VICKSBURG, next left” I think to myself….well lets get into left lane, which means we obviously, will be going I-20 West as there are no lefts before hand.  So of course, 3 seconds after I get all the way left, the downtown exit for Vicksburg, was a)4 lanes over on the right, b)was merging with tons of other highways at that point, so even if I could pull a stuntdriver move and get 4 lanes over and down a steep rounded incline ramp from going 65 mph, the 12 cars between me and the exit made that foolhardy, and c) to add injury to insult… it was the ONLY Vicksburg exit on this highway… and yep, you guessed it, on this side of the Mississippi!…. so 20 minutes later after having crossed the Mississippi twice and gone back into Louisiana against my will, I finally made it into Vicksburg.    GRRRRRRRRRRRR.     Whose dumb idea was it to drive this?  

Moral of this story:  when they say left in Louisiana or Mississippi, they actually mean right.  They really do.  There is no such thing as a left here.   They’ve infiltrated Mapquest and Googlemaps too, so don’t be fooled.  Trust no one, and always go right.

Things I did:

Café Des Amis, Bridge Road, Breaux Bridge, right downtown amid the antique shops.   I loved it. Double check plus.

Outside of big cities, the USA doesn’t have a heck of a lot of guesthouses of the hostel type.   A place where you can NOT make reservations in advance and have a good chance of landing a cheap bed, or find yourself in an atmosphere where single travellers can congregate.    Lafayette, probably considered the capital of cajun country, does have one called the Blue Moon Guesthouse.   Clean, has a 50s soda pop vibe, nice front porch, wifi, and computer access and a lovely shared living room area.

My room, for a 4 bunker (which I had alone), was $18/night, linens included.  But enough about that, what was really cool about the place, besides the meet other people travelling vibe, was that its back porch doubled as a little bar and music space, and starting around 7 o’clock, the place was packed with locals toting their instruments ready for a little cajun jam session.   I got myself an abita strawberry ale, and with my flipflops on and t shirt and sweatpants I joined the group for a while, then would go back to my room and do my own thing.  Then back outside for the jam. 

The cajun locals are wonderful.  First they do speak with that accent that can be difficult to follow, and many of them actually speak French.   They are open, abundantly friendly, and the opposite of reserved.   The gentleman I was sitting with, a white haired guy, probably in his 60s asked me my name and where I was from.    No more than 10 minutes later someone else comes up to me and tells me they heard I had lived in Manhattan for a while and was asking me some tips!   It was kind of nice actually, as I didn’t have to keep introducing myself, nor telling the same old stories.  As I obviously was one of the few non locals in the place, everyone got the scoop from each other (quickly!) and introduced themselves. 

There was a special going on tonight at the blue moon… it wasn’t going to be straight zydeco, and actually it looked like a lot of the locals weren’t going to get to rosen up their bows afterall, because hanging out on the back porch with us was Mamadou Diabate, in the area for a local zydeco festival, and also Jazzfest down in New Orleans.    He is a native of Mali (maybe or maybe not Timbuktu, but it sounded better in the title), and plays an instrument that is called a kora, which looks to me like a gourd string base.     In Mali, they have a caste system, and Mamadou grew up in a caste that are specifically musicians (called jeli caste).  You can imagine how much of a master of this instrument this man is to have made his way internationally.    

What a cool things to watch, he played for awhile on his own, what I would guess to be more traditional Malian kora melodies, but then a band of cajun players joined him, and he joined in the zydeco fun.     One of the locals asked me to dance the waltz (which is still danced here, though not exactly a normal waltz), taught me a few steps and whirled me around this tiny space cleared for waltzing activities.   Afterward properly thanked me for the dance, and went on his merry way! 

What I did:

Blue Moon Guesthouse, 1-877-766-BLUE (2583), 215 East Convent St.  Lafayette, LA, http://www.bluemoonhostel.com/index.html

Mamadou Diabate, http://www.mamadoukora.com/