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.

Nuestros Amigos Y El Auto Sin Seguridad- Alabama

I am determined to spend as little time in Alabama as possible. We spend today driving straight for the Gulf Coast and the Florida Panhandle. It’s a long drive. Sleeping overnight in a Walmart would add insult to the injury of my Alabama experience. We pull off to grab some Zzz’s in a rest area about 60 miles from our destination. It’s supposed to be a quick in and out. We slept deeper and later than intended. After taking care of necessities I, for one, am absolutely ready to get out of this place. We back up. THUNK. Heart sinking, my driver and I wear the looks of the condemned. He gets out of the car, I follow minutes later. The bike tire on my new bike had thunk’d the wheel well of a black truck. A small latino man, who is very pleasant, tells us it’s his friend’s car. He speaks wonderful English. Trying to lighten the mood we chat about our respective trips. He’s from Mexico City and has been driving for days. He misses home. He asks me if I have children. I respond in the negative. He expounds for awhile on the many wondrous reasons to have a child. I ask if he has children.

“No, maybe soon,” he says. His friend returns. He is a man with a well worn face and a military posture. He sees us talking to his friend and smiles hugely. He greets us as good friends. His friend explains, in Spanish, what has happened. His face falls and he looks at the damage. The impact had left a scratch and loosened the taillights. He doesn’t seem to understand what has happened. I tell him, in Spanish, what has happened and offer our insurance documents. He offers that he does not have insurance. He says he wouldn’t get the car fixed in the US because it’s too expensive. He will wait until he is home. He estimates the damage at $200. We get the cash we have together and offer $120. It is a very strange parting. He had been so polite, calm and collected through the entire ordeal.

“Mucho gusto” I say to the pair. “Que les vayan bien.” They clasp my hand and return the sentiment. We finally get on the road. Alabama just isn’t for me.

My guidebook says that Pensacola, FL, is a bastion of conservatism and that it is best not to expect much from time spent here. We drive in through the bad side of town, and the guidebook estimation is right on target. This is a town where I would not leave my car unattended

Van On Lock Down- Talladega, Alabama

Dusk falls and we’ve finished reconnaissance of the camp. It seems everyone else left the camp very quickly. There is garbage strewn about as testament to their presence. One campsite has hot ashes carefully banked in a fire pit. They are a fiery orange and we use them to start our own fire. Dinner is ready around nine. The silence is so heavy that it almost smothers me. I glance nervously over my shoulder, starting at leaves rustling and twigs snapping. It’s cold outside and smells like smoke. Another car drives in, this time they don’t drive away. The black Pontiac jolts into the space next to ours, braking hard. AC/DC is blasting, heavy on the bass. The doors open and slam shut and I hear the southern drawl of a man and a woman. He sounds tipsy. Actually, he sounds absolutely smashed.

“I like AC/DC,” he slurs to his companion, “I know you don’t but I don’t care.” She murmurs something back but it is really hard to eavesdrop with metal music shaking the very ground. These two don’t alleviate my serial killer fears. The man’s accent is pure backwoods. For all I know he’s got a gun in that teeny weeny tent of his. He cracks another beer. If the empties I saw before were his, he’s drinking redneck soda- Bud Lite. He reclines on a plastic chair while his lady friend struggles to blow up a pool float. He carries on the entire time. She shoves the plastic contraption into the itty bitty tent. The music continues.

“I guess we left southern hospitality and consideration behind in Georgia.” I mutter to my companion, sotto voce. All the sudden the music stops. We will sleep in the van tonight- windows closed, doors double locked, with one eye open. I try to figure out how to keep the knife in my pocket without stabbing myself. When we wake in the morning there’s no trace of our neighbors save the aluminum cans left in remembrance of our time together.

Get Me Out of Alabamee

After the mellow cool-ness of Atlanta, GA the border crossing into Alabama is discordant and shocking. I feel for the first time like I am not in my own country. I notice silly things at first. NRA billboards every half mile, falling down houses, garbage EVERYWHERE, and no beer Sundays. The van navigates a narrow unpaved road that takes us deep into the Talladega National Forest. It is a small camp where payment depends on the honor system. There's no ranger. When we arrived there was nothing but garbage strewn everywhere and a tiny children's tent, abandoned, in the site next to ours. The silence is beautiful at first. Gradually I become hyper-aware of every sound.I begin to wonder why no one else is at the camp. I obsess over the reason why someone would just leave a tent. Three cars crunch slowly down the road. The drivers stare as they steer past our campsite. They drive away and don't come back. Dusk arrives, the tent next door is still empty. Back in the van I take a paring knife and put it in my jacket pocket. Just in case.

The Van Goes Home...Kind of

I was born in Macon, GA 22 years and 364 days ago. It is strange to be in a place that I've been before, and not to remember it. There is a good side of Macon, and there is a bad side. The rundown shacks and the plantation wannabe's are separated by a mile and some railroad tracks. It's a warm day and we drive around trying to find my old house. We drive up and down the street. I can't remember. I see a brick house that strikes me. I remember a neighbor named Ben who made a lego pirate ship in the dining room of that brick house. I look to the left. That was my house. It's smaller than I thought it was.

PS- The photo above is not my house. It's the Allman Brother's House, now a Mueseum which we saw the same day. Picture my house as that, but about a third the size :)

Another Night, Another Walmart

I rise, bright and early, the next morning ready to give the Warner-Robbins Walmart my smiley-est face. As I walk in the store I am convinced that North Carolina has the friendliest locals. I catch myself. It is possible that working in a superstore that mandates its employee’s cheer might act as a kind of negative force to suck the genuine hospitality out of individuals. I’ll test this theory and get back to you.

If I ever escape this wasteland, I’m heading straight to Macon. Think of me, and avoid the perils of the superstore.

After an extended stay in the lap of Walmart luxury, the van is back on the road. I can’t afford any more calamities. Shortly after 2PM I become the proud owner of a light blue mountain bike. It has a basket. It’s a girls bike because the adult variety doesn’t fit my size. I’m thinking about finding a horn that plays “La Cucaracha” to warn unwary pedestrians to get out of the way. Lost in thoughts of being queen of the road I miss our entrance into Macon. We will stay the night at Lake Obofenoke(?) and hit the streets of town in the morning.

And the Van Goes Whooooshhhh

We leave Savannah for Macon around 2. For some reason gas doesn’t seem any less expensive than in New York or DC. I wonder if there’s been an international oil crisis in the week since I’ve been out of the loop. I stare out the window and am glad there’s only an hour left on this leg of the trip. Whooooshh. I hear the noise from outside my window. My companion and I look at each other, then the road. Flat tire, we think. We pull over on the side of Interstate 16 and sure enough flatter than a pancake is the right passenger side tire. The van is too big for the lift we have so I dial AAA. I have no idea where we are besides somewhere on 16. Thank God for Esther- who will be Ella today because she has been wonderful. I was able to give the operator our precise latitude and longitude. I’m not sure if that helped the tow guy. He arrives 30 minutes later. He’s standing by the damaged van speaking to my companion while he caresses the tire, deep in thought. He brought his son with him, a round boy of about 8 who wanders into the treeline looking for treasures. I am sitting on the grass. I flick an ant off my arm. It’s been more than a decade since I was in Georgia last. I remember something and make a mad dash for the safety of the van. I’m allergic to the ants here.

The man and his round boy drive away into the sunset as we limp towards a local mechanic. The spare tire has a case of dry rot and will not last long. Luckily the AAA man had pointed us to a mechanic’s shop less than a mile away. Unfortunately the shop closed at 5. Reluctantly we alter our course to a Walmart Esther say’s is 14 miles away, in a town just outside of Macon called Warner-Robbins. It takes an hour to drive those fourteen miles. I hold my breath every time we cross a railroad track or hit a dip in the road. The van stoically arrives in the superstore parking lot. I feel such indescribable joy at the prospect another night spent under the bright lights of a 24-hour Walmart. Twenty-four hours of bargain prices, backfiring cars, and domestic disputes. Just before midnight a man fires up a leaf blower to clear the parking lot of debris.

Bitterness at the Savannah Sweet Shop

After a good night’s rest with hot showers and cable television (we splurged on a room for the night) our arrival in Savannah, GA is full of expectation. We park on the edge of town and walk in. Savannah is beautiful. There are public squares full of pink and white flowers shadowed by ancient trees draped in Spanish moss. A man plays the flute in the shade. Wandering over to drop a dollar in his bucket, we introduce ourselves. This native Savannahian directs us to River Street, which is paved with cobblestones from the first slave ships that docked in the area. There are shops for tourists and locals, and delicious food. I head into a candy shop, feeling guilty for the indulgence. In the shop there are handmade candies of every specification- pralines, taffy, chocolates-created right before my eyes. A man tosses me a taffy he has just finished pulling. It is pink and green with a texture. Delicious. There is a window for praline samples. I lurk there, waiting for someone else to request one of the delicacies. I wish I hadn’t. A woman I identify as a tourist by her clamdiggers, relative age, and the tell tale nametag that reads Julie something or other rushes from the front entrance to the praline window in full steam. She stops, waits for less than 20 seconds and begins tapping he foot. She stares at her watch. I stare at her. A tall black man wears a nametag as well. It says Keith. Keith stops preparing confections behind the window and approaches the window. He leans over into the corner to grab something. As he stretches his hands to retrieve a glove the tourist woman opens her mouth, wide like a fish. Eyes blaze and nostrils flare as she prepares to give him hell-for what? Having to wait less than a minute for a free sample? She finally realizes what he had been doing and deflates. She coos, sickeningly sweet,

“Oh”, she makes this two syllables, “You were getting a glove”

I think, “Way to state the obvious lady.” Then she drops the bomb.

“Good boy.” She drawls out the vowels. I shake my head thinking I must have misheard this impatient woman address a thirty year old man so condescendingly. She talked to Keith as one would speak to a dog or a slow child. I can’t help but turn at look at her. My eyebrow raises on its own accord. Having received her treat she sallies forth for the next free sample, neglecting to say even a simple thank you. Keith turns to me and asks if I would like to try some.

“Yes please.” As he passes me the treat, “Thank you, Keith. Have a good one.” The praline melts in my mouth, a warm combination of salty and sweet tinged with the regret that there was nothing I could do to change what I had seen. I wave good-bye, clutching my goodies and walk into the Savannah sun.

On Charleston

The van settles in for the night in a rest area just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. The lot is full of big rigs and is oddly quiet. The vending machines are behind bars and labeled with signs. “Reach through bars to make selection”. I see a cat darting from the woods, making a beeline for the garbage can. There are piles of kitty food around the waste basket. A woman pushes a wheelbarrow into a storage shed. I wonder if the cat is hers. I wander over to look at maps posted on the information board. She moves thoughtfully and a bit laboriously to check the restrooms before she leaves for the day. We chat for a bit. The cats are hers. She chuckles, calling them her babies. We say good night. Back in the van Dexter is playing. I think watching a series about serial killers is probably not the best thing to do when living out of a van. I sleep fitfully, waking up periodically to make sure there is no killer lurking around the vehicle. I see dozens and dozens of cats, their eyes gleam in the dark. Hardly comforting.

We drive into Charleston early the next morning. I have nothing nice to say about Charleston.

In Search of the Venus Fly Traps

I set off in the early afternoon to find elusive Venus Fly Trap. This plant is so rare that it is only found in North Carolina swamps and bordering South Carolina counties. I had previously imagined it as an enormous Amazonian predator found deep in fetid forests on the South American continent. Who knew? On the brochure from the front office is a map of the park which includes miles of the park, as well as creatively named trails. I keep careful watch on my toes as I venture to the auspiciously named “Flytrap” trail. The path is a half mile loop through swamp and plain. There is a bridge over the swamp. The air in the swamp is heavy, and the trees overhead guard against light. The still waters echo the silence of the swamp, and then my loud footfall. It occurs to me that the swamp water looks like a really good French roast. I wonder what it would taste like. I resist temptation. Barely. I hike for miles looking for the Venus Fly Traps. I had half expected they would be labeled with a tasteful wooden plaque. “ This is so-and-so indigenous plant, blah, blah, blah.” I hadn’t really expected the organic experience of having to find something myself. An hour later, defeated, I return to the ranger station to inquire about the plants. The ranger explains that the flytraps are on the paths behind the “KEEP OUT” signs. Huh, wonder why I didn’t look there?

I return to the “Flytrap” an hour later, fortified with knowledge and a special dispensation from the ranger to disregard the signs. The only barrier to the fly traps now is the multitude of “KEEP OUT” signs and my own certainty that most of the signs are there for a reason. With relief and a little trepidation I spot another ranger. This guy is on a mission. He power walks by me with impressive speed and then halts 20 meters down. Crouching, he searches for something. I leave him to his work and prepare to dive into the breach. I stop when I hear him behind me, and am prepared to be chastised before I explain myself. The ranger is a younger man, and when I explain my quandary he leads me straight back on the trail. He searches for a minute and then points.

“There they are.” He says, with a thick Carolina drawl. And there they were. Teeny tiny Venus Flytraps, no bigger than the pad of my thumb. Chauncey-the ranger- explains that the huge plants I was expecting are only created in labs. He proceeds to wow me with his knowledge of the plants, its surrounding environment and the local culture. As we leave the bitsy plants behind, I ask Chauncey what he does at the park as a ranger, expecting a complicated description of measuring soil acidity and protecting wildlife. The tips of his ears blush, and he ducks his head for a minute.

“I’m maintenance” he says. He shares that he has worked at the park for 4 years, and loves it. He calls the park the best part of being a North Carolinian. It also turns out that Chauncey originally hails from Cortland, New York. His hometown is an hour from mine. I wanted to ask him how long it took him to pick up the local accent but refrained. What really amazes me about Chauncey is the breadth of knowledge he has gathered while working at the park. We bid each other adieu at the head of trail and head our separate ways.

Into the Woods- Carolina Beach State Park, NC 04/112010

The van arrives at Carolina Beach State Park two hours before dusk. The campsite is alive with screaming children, overwhelmed parents, and a troop of Virginia Boy Scouts experiencing the thrill of nature while holding fast to their plastic assault rifles. I gather brochures from the Park Office as we check in and discover that Carolina Beach is home to many a carnivorous plant. Even better the $18 camping fee includes access to HOT SHOWERS. I will reluctantly share that in the week since I left Bethesda I have showered only once. This, combined with the atmosphere of last night’s camp, leaves me with a decidedly scummy feeling.

Close Call

We leave Greenville, North Carolina after 4 anxious hours in the AAA waiting room. The patient has been diagnosed, and the serpentine belt replaced. I am secretly convinced I could have replaced the thing myself. I could have certainly replaced it more quickly, and caused a lesser blow to the trip budget. Two hundred dollars lighter in the wallet-but with the AAA service guarantee- we set a course for the Green Swamp in southerly North Carolina. We plan to stay the night at Carolina Beach State Park. The van cruises forty miles down the road. I enthuse over the smooth ride and easier handling, speculating that perhaps this will increase gas mileage. Thunk-a-chunk-thunk-thunk. We pull the van over. It’s not difficult to do, we are out in the middle of nowhere. Popping open the hood, my companion turns the engine over. He crawls under the engine compartment and emerges victorious, clutching pieces of the old serpentine belt in his hand. We start again, holding our breaths a little less closely for each mile between ourselves and potential disaster.

On the Road Again

The AAA waiting room is nice. There is free WiFi and decent coffee. The TV has been playing "Urban Legends" for the past two and a half hours. The camping stories are creeping me out. The AAA-man vindicates my initial diagnosis. It is the serpentine belt. The part should be arriving shortly and $200 later we should be on the road again. Fingers crossed.

And the Van Goes...Nowhere- 04/10/2010

I realize I have been overly judgmental in the past. Especially regarding people who sleep in parking lots. Even worse, people who sleep in Walmart parking lots. I fell asleep last night under the gentle fluorescence of the familiar superstore logo. I start my day the Walmart way, with the gentle sounds of the store's patrons slamming doors, berating their children and hollering to friends across the way. We make coffee in the van and savor the natural beauty of our location.

We made ready to set sail towards the Green Swamp (and it's 14 varieties of carnivorous plants) and cruise smoothly out of the parking lot. After a quick stop at a local shop we are good to go. We pause to give Esther our destination, and then...klunk, klunk kerchunk on a repeat loop. Minutes later it stops. I know a little about cars-from unfortunate experiences with my own vehicles- and try to comfort my driver.

"It's just a belt" I say confidently, "Cheap to fix." We make a left turn out of the parking lot. "Is it hard to steer?" My companion nods the affirmative. "Yep, that's a serpentine belt all right, shouldn't be to hard to fix."

We scouted the area earlier in the day and are very lucky that there is a AAA center less than a mile down the road. We arrive safetly and pop the hood. There's a frayed, worn belt hanging limply from two pulleys. We settle in to wait.

Down by the Walmart-North Carolina 04/09/2010

We decide to leave Cape Hatteras in the evening. We set the GPS-Esther- towards Goose Creek State Park and drive for two hours. The park is closed and there are no rest stops nearby to spend the night. A little known fact for would-be travellers: you may park in any Walmart parking lot overnight for free. With this in mind, I am very happy when Esther tells me there is a superstore 7 miles away. We drive back to the main road and make several turns. I comment,

"Strange place for a Walmart. Seems like a residential neighborhood."

Placing our trust in technology we turn down increasingly narrow roads, waiting for a glimpse of the promised parking lot. Esther directs us to turn down a dirt road, dings twice and happily announces that we have arrived at our destination. There is nothing. With barely enough room to turn around and a gas gauge close to empty we turn around to find directions the old fashioned way-by inquiring at the local filling station.

Down on the Beach- Cape Hatteras, North Carolina -4/08/2010

We arrive at Oregon Inlet around 4PM. We take our pick of sites in the deserted campground and set off for the beach. Climbing giant sand dunes, it seems at once like we're in a desert. In less than five minutes we stand on the shore. A very cold and windy shore. Sand stings my legs, turning them a violent red as it leaves a fine layer of grit over my face and hair. It is too cold to dip more than one toe into the ocean. I comb the beach for pretty shells and sea glass before setting off across the dunes again. The wind keeps up, and it is impossible to heat a can of beans in less than thirty minutes. No wonder North Carolina was "first in flight".

The rain starts around midnight. The van shakes and thunder rumbles, shaking the ground. I wake periodically but sleep through most of the show.

Down by the Swamp- Great Dismal Swamp, NC 04/08/2010

Very Dismal.

Down By the River-Bob II

Less than an hour later Bob returns. I left my companion to make dinner while Bob and I chat. He had changed into camouflage pants, a clean t-shirt, and a red hat. I ask about his dislike of New Yorkers. Establishing ourselves as friendlies, Bob shares his aversion stems from a New York couple who had arrived the previous day. At 11PM he had been summoned to break up a "domestic dispute" between the two. The woman had handprints around her neck and was cut from a knife. The police had arrested the man. She drove off, bailed him out, and they returned to the campground at 3 AM to finish what they had started.

"College kids and the Navy" Bob muses, ruminating on the action he'd seen as camp security guard. He spits on the ground. "You all college kids?" He asks suspiciously. I assure him we are not. He grunts his approval. I invite him to share our dinner. He graciously declines. Bob mutters, tugs at his cap, and drives off.

Down by the River- North Landing Beach, Virginia 04/07/2010

The van pulls in after the office has closed. Without a reservation I fear we might have to camp in a farmer's field-or worse, a Walmart parking lot. We call the after hours number and are connected to a lovely voice who advises us to expect Bob, a "nice, gentle man", shortly to check us in. The "nice, gentle" part is repeated twice. Minutes later, Bob motors up in a bright red, tricked-out golf cart. There is a Pepsi and a pack of smokes nestled in the front. Bob slouches over the steering wheel wearing faded flannel pajamas and a dirty t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He is wearing what was once a white ball cap. His arms, made leathery by the sun, are tattooed. Around his left bicep is fading barbed wire with an eagle feather hanging off it. The skin is starting to sag from his bones. He grumbles about New Yorkers and shows a singular disdain for paperwork. He tells us to come back in the morning to sort everything out. We follow his golf cart to a site 20 feet from the river. His cart putt-putts away. He calls over his shoulder, "See you tonight."

Down by the Bay- The Cabin, 4/05/2010

"The Woods" was my perfect place. A secluded cabin on the waters of the Chesapeake where my uncle and my father would take me out on a john-boat christened "Jay-Bob" to catch crabs. We would prowl silently through the shallows as they stood precariously at the helm, balanced by the long wooden handle of the crab net. They advised quiet in low voices and squinted their eyes to survey muddy waters for crab activity. A sudden loss of equilibrium as they lunged to the side in a battle of speed and dexterity. Our crustacean foes claimed victory more often than not. Most of the time I preferred roasting hot-dogs to smashing crabs anyway.

The cabin has been shut for five years. The Jay-Bob was crushed by an errant tree, and the well has run dry. The screens have fallen from the porch, and a vagrant smashed a window. Our tree house is straight up and down. One side of the tree experienced a growth spurt while the other remained the same. This is my place. The home my grandfather built.

The Woods-Mila, Va 4/5/2010

My father told me to be on the lookout for a "weird left turn" and a blue farmhouse with a metal "N" on the front door. My Grammy advised to turn left at the Methodist church and keep an eye for three cottages grouped together, one older than the rest. If we saw a Baptist church we had gone too far. Without an actual address, the GPS was useless in the search for an address-less cabin these. The first van-day forecast doom. Desperate to hasten our arrival, each setback seemed like the end of the world.

"That looks like a weird left, take that road."

"There's a Baptist church, turn around. We've gone too far."

My driver bore these tribulations with good grace and silence, but as nighttime approach I feared we would never succeed. My companion gently suggested that we use a modern marvel, the telephone. I gave up on the churches and called my area contact. Five minutes later we parked by the head of the cabin trail.