New Orleans

There is a good part of New Orleans, and a bad part of the city I was told by those “in the know” at our next stop. Racism is thinly veiled. I feel, incredulously, that the people that I am speaking to would be astonished and very hurt to be labeled in such a way. They make allusions to the “darkness” and exclaim that in the area we are staying they feel like “the cream in an oreo cookie.” I don’t want to ruffle any feathers, so I mostly nod and smile- the idiot from New York. These people are, obviously, white. They vary in age, shape and gender. They all tell me the same thing- “for your own good.” It makes my stomach hurt. They talk about us and them as if involved in a secret war. Maybe they are, but I am not.

We park the van in a not so great part of town. There are houses that have been abandoned since the flood. The sidewalks are cracked and overturned, covered in broken glass. There is gate to the camp we are staying. The gates are topped with spikes and one must have a code to get in. It’s a cramped and awkward space. Everyone staying here is white. An aged housewife gossips with me from the stoop of her multi million dollar home. Her hair is bleached blonde and she has the face of a pack a day smoker- too old too soon. She also has three yappy designer dogs that go with her everywhere. I speak with a demolition worker in the laundry room. He tells me that he was one of the first outsiders in after Katrina. He says that everything was the same color, mud gray. He remembers clearly the silence. There were no birds and there were no ants then. He repeats this several times, there were no ants. He is responsible for taking down houses that have been condemned. The work has gone on for years. He recalls that when he first arrived he wasn’t able to the place he was supposed to be, because everything had changed. He suggests that we head out to the “heap” on the outskirts of this part of town. This is the place, he says, where everything that was destroyed goes. All the debris, houses, cars, buildings that were left are dumped in the heap. He is very concerned about the right and wrong parts of town. He tells me not to walk anywhere, even in the day.  I smile and nod and do what I please.

Midnight Mississippian Monsters

Later in the night, I toss and turn. I have fragmented dreams about vicious woodland creatures breaking into the van, leaving us at their mercy. In my dream they come in from the ceiling like ninjas in masks. I wake up, hyper aware thanks to my nonsensical imaginings. Except…there’s a scraping sound at the back of the van. I am instantly awake. The noise continues for a bit and then gets closer. It is on top of the van now. The light patter of ninja raccoon feet echoes in the silence. There is a skylight on the roof. I think I can see the demonic glow of its eyes. It snuffles. More pattering from the roof. There’s a whole family up there! I imagine them crashing through the roof under their combined weight. I lie still, hoping they will go away. It is clear that the raccoons are having a raucous bandit party on the roof of the van. My companion wakes up with a start. More asleep than awake he gets up and turns the skylight fan on. The fan blade catches a furry foot. I hear rapid scurrying. Satisfied that the fan offers superior protection against my furry foe, I go back to sleep.

Night in the Mississippi

Night falls in Mississippi. We are told by the welcome wagon that the park is home to a variety of critters, including alligators. I fervently hope they will stay in the swamp. What worse surprise on a middle of the night trip to the restroom than a gargantuan reptile in the middle of the walk? Actually, there is something worse. As the vivid orange-y pink sunset faded from the sky we hear a rustling from the bushes behind the van. Expecting a rabbit, armadillo, or at worst an alligator, I am very unhappy to see a masked bandit slink from the foliage. He boldly approaches our camp without a hint of fear and I assume my now customary position on top of the picnic table. My brave companion slings rocks at the corpulent body of our intruder. The creature pauses, checks to see if the rock is edible, and then continues forward. This fearless creature approaches closer, nearer to my own precarious position. I suddenly realize that this thing can climb, and I am no safer on top of the picnic table than I would be anywhere else. I take a flying leap off the table and make for the van. The quadruped changes direction and approaches the open doors of my haven. He gets his two front paws in before my valiant knight begins to stomp his feet and bark like a dog. Looking disdainfully over his shoulder at such a show, the raccoon resentfully halts his encroachment and returns to the woods at a leisurely pace.

The Van Goes to Mississippi

We leave Pensacola very sore and more than a little wary of swimming. This beach was one of our last opportunities to swim, and it may be a while before I feel comfortable dipping more than a toe into the ocean. New Orleans marks the first quarter of this road trip, and I am aiming to be there before the weekend. It is a long day in the van. We cross the border back into Alabama without incident. I breathe a sigh of relief upon entrance to Mississippi a short time later. We decide to give the van a rest at the Gulf Coast National Seashore Park of Mississippi. The park is full of RV’s. It seems that people must settle in this location for awhile. There are potted plants and garden gnomes adorning the front “walks” of the portable homes. We are, as usual, the youngest in the camp by at least 40 years. Our neighbors are eager to talk. They mostly come in pairs and have settled into the routine of a traveler’s life. The first question is always, “Where you from?” followed by “Where you heading?” We get a lot of information from these conversations. It is not often that there is a soul brave enough to travel alone. There was one in Carolina Beach State Park- his car had NY plates- but  he was on some spirit quest that required solitude so we merely exchange waves. Our neighbor at this park was one of those singles, although not by choice it seemed. He was an older man in a black conversion van. Grey haired and not quite clean shaven, he became very attached to my companion in a short time.He shares that he is on the road to find a place where he could breathe. Literally. It seems he was coming from Nevada, which he called the most polluted city in the United States, looking for a place where he can breathe untroubled by crippling allergies. After a time I join them at the picnic table where they were sitting. Nevada turned red and excuses himself. I want to invite him to share our supper but he has disappeared.

No Van, Just Beach The Next Morning

Waking up on the beach is sticky. I feel like sand and salt have caked in my hair. The solution to that is a quick morning swim. Yesterday, upon entrance to the park, a purple flag had warned of dangerous sea-life. Forcing Steve Irwin from my thoughts I dip a toe in. The water is a a clear turquoise blue. Several toes follow the first. I am knee deep in the water and it is wonderful! I stay in the shallows and float on my back. The sky is clear, the sun is warm and the water is blessedly cool. In an instant I feel sharp pain over my entire body. Rushing from the shallows with little grace the pain morphs into a full body stinging sensation radiating from the back of my knee. The skin is almost purple and sensitive to touch. I use all of our bottled water in an effort to rinse the irritant away. We lug our things away shortly after. The pain lingers for much of the day.

No Van, Just Beach- Gulf Coast, Florida

After a morning spent prodding hermit crabs and counting lizards we decide to move camp. State parks are expensive for overnight lodging and it is fee free week for national parks. At the entrance for the Gulf Shore National Park we check in. The attendant informs us that the van can not accompany us for the night.

"It's primitive camping," he explains with a gleam in his eye, "make sure to bring a shovel." He laughs at his joke as we prepare to lug our camp gear over a mile-without the benefit of the van. Our site is on sugary sand twenty yards from the cresting waves. It is the in between time when the tide is neither high nor low. The wind blows fiercely. It takes us nearly an hour to set the tent up- a task normally accomplished in five minutes. Just when we think it is perfectly secure, a gust blows it end over end down the beach. We finally prevail. The wind quiets and the sun sets. The sky is beautiful. It never gets really dark on the beach at night. The pure white of the sand reflects the moonbeams reassuringly. We are the only ones here. As the waves gently hit the shore our day is done.

The Van Meets an Armadillo- Gulf Coast, Florida

After touring Pensacola's T.T. Wentworth Museum- the most impressive exhibit being a petrified cat- we decide to land at the Big Lagoon State Park for the evening. The woman on duty in the park office had the leathery skin of a die hard sun worshipper. She exclaimed loudly when she read our NY plates. She had moved to Florida some years ago from New York herself. She was ecstatic to find kindred New York spirits staying within her purview. I ask the requisite, "do you mean New York City, or Upstate?" My new friend was formerly of Long Island and seriously homesick for all night diners. As we are talking she plucks a mosquito out of the air, carefully preserving its structure. She explains that she is teaching a nature workshop for local youth and is collecting specimens. Whack. Mean critters she says as she wipes her mosquito oozed hand on her khaki shorts.

We set up a camp surrounded by high weeds and low trees. As my companion and I begin our nightly ritual of gin rummy and backgammon I hear a rustling. I cast a wary gaze behind me and see a very strange sight. I jump on the picnic table as the creature comes towards us, my companion runs for his camera. The armadillo had been lulled into a sense of secure space by our silent concentration on the game at hand. As my companion stalked him with a photographic lens, our new friend became shy. He hustled back into the undergrowth, my companion-literally-on his tail. I stayed on the table.