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.