PITTSBURGH TO ALIQUIPPA

I remember, when I sit down to blog, how I keep reminding myself to write while the subject matter is fresh.  I have yet to do so, but I'm optimistic that someday I will.  I think I could actually get to like this if I did, keeping the details fresh in my mind as I type. 
Today I'm remembering my week at Gary and Linda's, in Raccoon Township, a part of Beaver County, and an interesting but heroically unimaginative use of the privilege of naming.  In terms of population, Beaver County is relatively small at 170,000 or so people (Marin County, by way of comparison, has about 252,000 people), but it has an amazingly large number of incorporated entities: two cities, thirty boroughs, twenty-two townships, and eight unincorporated areas.  We could stand on a hill and see five different boroughs or towns.

Aliquippa is the main city in Beaver County, a run down shell of the former industrial powerhouse it was in the 1950's.  Oddly, the rest of Beaver County is humming.  There are power plants, including the famous Shippingport nuclear power plant, the first in the United States (1957). 



Shippingport, PA.

There are steel mills, chemical plants, gypsum factories, mines, cracker plants, and small businesses galore.  

One of hundreds of factories along the Ohio River.

One of many mountains of coal waiting to be fed into the maws of the factories.

The Ohio River and the Beaver River, among others, allow plenty of shipping and recreation; they are significantly cleaner today than they were when I lived in Pittsburgh.  Trains still run through the area around the clock, and although they seem to run surprisingly frequently, a plaque in the town of Robinson notes that 120 trains per day ran through town back in the heyday.  That's one every twelve minutes, 24/7.

Passing trains, Robinson PA.

 The iron railroad bridges still span the rivers and are still heavily used, although they are rusting visibly.

A train crossing the Ohio on an iron bridge from the 1800's.

  There are more bridges in the city of Pittsburgh than any city in the world, and in Beaver County alone there are more than 460.  As in Pittsburgh proper, the terrain is hilly and green, much of it covered with trees as it was in the 1700's when whites first settled, but much of it open and grassy.  This time of year, the grass is as green as it might be in Ireland, and the lawns, some of which are more than an acre, are well kept.  Not much farming or ranching, although the area seems to be brilliantly suitable, but lots of what might be considered mini-estates in size.  The housing stock is divided between new and old, with plenty of relatively new subdivisions of relatively expensive houses and very expensive houses.  The commute to Pittsburgh is less than an hour, and along with the bucolic scenery and expansive river access, there is clean air and no City payroll tax. 

The weather, as usual on this trip, was fantastic.  We spent hours driving around the different communities, and Gary filled me in on every plant and factory, what they were used for, what they used to be, and so on.  I'm a fanatic for that kind of thing, especially in western Pennsylvania where I'm from.  Gary and I drove into Pittsburgh and down to the South Side, a reviving neighborhood across the Monongahela from downtown Pittsburgh, and it was even more classically American Industrial Revolution housing stock.  The brick buildings stand side by side, touching one another, for block after block, with bars and restaurants from many years ago hanging on against the relentless onslaught of gentrification. 

I can almost see and hear the men in their sleeveless T-shirts, smoking and drinking beer on the front stoops, while crowds of dirty, shirtless kids speaking countless languages run wild in the streets.  Laundry hangs on the line, desperately trying to dry before the soot in the air settles on anything wet, and the smell of food from around the world wafts through the air.  The bars--more than anywhere in the country, by some accounts--are packed with tough, mean steelworkers and coal miners on Saturday night, and the hundreds of churches fill every Sunday morning.  Only the schools are never full.

Some parts of the South Side are brand new, with loft apartments in place of steel mills, and the Steelers practice facility surrounded by restaurants and apartments.  As you head down river the gentrification slows, but that's my part of town. 

A lot of the communities in Beaver County have been here for more than a hundred years, and they have those houses, warehouses, and factories that exert such a strange fascination on me.  Gary and Linda live in one of the subdivisions, though, in a house they bought because it was exactly what they wanted and then proceeded to completely change.  I liked it because I had my own bedroom and bath and a fine place to park the RV. The food was good, the company better, and I won a dollar from Gary by coming from
w-a-a-a-y behind in a card game that he taught me.

Jeane and I joined Gary and Linda in a trip to the only winery in the area, a surprisingly nicely done place in Gibsonia, where my dad's half brothers died of muscular dystrophy in the early 70's (another story, another time).  The grapes come from Erie and are crushed on site, and sold by the glass, bottle, or case.  Jeane, who knows wine, said they were pretty good, but sweeter in general than California wines.


At the winery in Gibsonia.

NEXT:  MT. WASHINGTON, NOW AND BEFORE

UP TO PITTSBURGH

I'm checking in for the first time in a shocking three weeks.  I thought I was more conscientious than this, and I'm surprised to see Key West as the last entry.  A lot of water under the bridge since then, or, more accurately, dollars in the tank.  I swear I can almost see the price rise at the pump while I fill up. 

I left Key West and drove back to Coral Springs, and departed for Lake Placid and Mom's house for one more visit before heading north.  The consistently warm weather in the northeast persuaded me to move up my schedule, which originally plotted mid-April for snow country.  The RV is NOT a good vehicle for driving in snow.

Back in Lake Placid, I checked in on Mom and on Uncle Jack, a retired Coast Guard officer with a million stories. I also viewed the 40+ stunning murals that chart the history of the area and Lake Placid in particular.  Some of them are as large as 20 feet high and a hundred feet long, and I can't imagine the time and skill needed to complete such fantastic works of art.


A small part of a huge mural featuring life sized cattle.

I discovered on my way out of town that State Road 84 (Alligator Alley), which runs from Broward County across the state to Naples, on the Gulf, has maybe one or two exits over the entire 80+ mile trip.  Not paying attention, I missed the Highway 27 exit and got locked onto the Alley, and after maybe 20 miles I realized I was probably on my way across the state.  At 8.5 miles per gallon, that looked to be a 20 gallon oversight, about a hundred bucks, plus several hours.  A short debate later, I made a U-turn on one of those "Official Vehicle Only" crossings, conspicuous as hell, and beat it back to Highway 27.  I got away with it.

Like a guy who makes the major leagues for one game, I had a cup of coffee visit in Tampa with my old camper friend Lon and then left for Atlanta, where my brother Michael lives.  My only stop on the way up was an RV park just inside Georgia, dotted with moss covered oak trees and cute little iridescent green frogs that I hadn't seen anywhere else.  One other thing of note there was the gigantic flea market that connected to the end of the RV park.  Pretty exciting for the locals on a Sunday morning.  I also discovered the best used book store ever, a library outlet.  Seems that libraries don't buy all their books, they lease them, and return them to the publisher when they're done with them.  I found thousands of books in excellent condition, for one to three dollars, and stocked up.  Good titles, too.

I reached Atlanta around March 24th and parked in Michael's driveway.  His wife, Chris, was up in Pittsburgh, holding a vigil for her mother Mary with her three siblings.  As her condition deteriorated, Michael made plans to go up to Pittsburgh for the impending funeral.  When Mary entered hospice for her final hours, Michael decided to drive up with me in the RV and ride back with his daughter Jennifer after.  The timing was perfect.

Mike's a great travel companion, having a good attitude, immense travel experience, terrific people skills, and enough money to help pay for gas.  We made the 700 mile journey in two days, arriving on Thursday, March 29th, after an uneventful journey.  The only interesting stop was a little RV park in Seven Mile Ford, Virginia, where we met the locals in the deli/coffee shop and in the cheap housing in the RV.  Four dollar breakfasts of cheap food and bad coffee, but nice people.  Very typical of rural America.  Not the 1%, that's for sure.

I stayed for a few days in Mt. Lebanon with my old friend Joy Alex and her husband John Hensler, their lovely daughter Ellie, and Joy's mom, now suffering from dementia and other ailments but still sweet.  They live in a house built for his own use by Ed Ryan of Ryan homes, who built some 64,000 homes in his career.  This house has some unique features, since Ed's son had muscular dystrophy, and the yard, with a rectangular three lots at the rear, covers three acres, making them the largest private property in Mt. Lebanon and a generous payer of property tax. 

On Friday, March 30th, my girlfriend Jeane flew in for a weeklong visit.  One of the sad duties we had was going to the visitation for Chris' mom on Tuesday and the funeral on Wednesday.  I discovered at the last minute that I had prepared for such an event in a very half-assed way, and did not have the proper clothing in the RV.  I found myself dressed in a pair of decent grey slacks, black loafers, light green socks, a dark blue jacket from a formal suit, and a light blue V-necked T shirt.  I did have a belt, fortunately.  I felt conspicuous as hell, and noticed a sort of bewildered reaction from the other visitors at the funeral.  "I'm from California," I'd say, helpfully, and they would nod, relieved, as if that explained everything.  I looked like a badly paid English professor from a small college in the 1970's. 

Chris and her siblings, Bill, Donna, and Kathy, were profoundly moved by the vigil and the events of the last days.  They were fortunate to have Hospice, and had the opportunity to say everything that needed to be said and to have time to just sit with Mary at the end.  At the very last, while all four were present, Mary opened her eyes, said "I love you," and slipped away.  There was more to the description, but the obvious mingling of joy and grief at the perfection of the passing gave me chills. 

We went to the funeral at St. John Chrysostom Byzantine Catholic Church in Homestead, a blue collar neighborhood where Mary lived in the house her mother bought for her when Mary married, way back when.  Michael and Chris were married in that church forty years ago, when Mike was nineteen, on the same day of the year my parents were married twenty-four years previously.  He wore a crown that made him look like that guy in the Imperial Margerine commercials, but kept his dignity.

The church itself was very interesting.  Byzantine Catholics, unlike Greek Orthodox, recognize the authority of the Pope and his infallability when speaking  ex cathedra, but maintain their own liturgy and vary somewhat in expressing the rites.  Although the Mass is usually conducted in English in the United States, it is sometimes conducted in Old Church Slavonic, a language put in writing and used by St. Cyril, who devised the Cyrillic alphabet still used in Russia and other eastern European Slavic nations, and St. Methodius.  This is a fantastic history, dating back to perhaps 836 AD.  Its use seems to be somewhat similar to Yiddish in that it enables people of different languages, particularly eastern European, to combine together in worship.

The church, recently redone, featured a confusing juxtaposition of art between the paintings and stained glass windows.  The barrel ceiling, the area of the church behind the altar, and an enormous and bewildering flat panel consruction in front of and around the altar were painted in a style best described as medieval.  Everything seemed to be two dimensional, flat, in appearance.  The saints all seemed to be the same guy, maybe with different hair and beard and more or fewer wrinkles.  The hands were weirdly skeletal, with long bony fingers jutting out at impossible angles, as though the artist could not decide whether they were facing forward or backward.  The colors of the paintings were not very many, seeming like they were selected from a sixteen color box of Crayola crayons instead of the sixty-four color box. 

Jesus was portrayed in different locations as a grown man, typical of  Catholic churches, but in one location he appeared with the Virgin Mary as what seemed to be a boy of about eight years old, something seldom seen.  I'm not sure whether it was intentional or a badly drawn infant, but it raised interesting questions in my mind at the long funeral mass.  Was eight year old Jesus a rambunctious youngster?  Did he get in trouble?  Make mistakes?  I've always wondered about that, just as I wondered about the eight year old Superboy.  I wouldn't want to piss off either one of them.

The stained glass windows, each donated by an individual or family with a lot of Vs, Ks, and Js in the name, were an entirely different order of art.  They appeared almost fully three dimensional and were brilliantly colored, like the rarely seen 256 color Crayola crayon box.  There may have been sixteen shades of blue alone, along with rich reds, golds, and greens.  There were not many locations of purple, perhaps because of the connection to royalty, but there were some stunning whites that almost seemed to be lit by light from above, which, due to the subject matter, was obviously the artist's intention.  The faces and hands were first rate, and the folds of the garments leaped out from the glass.  It was a fascinating display of a mighty talent,and I wondered at the difference in quality between it and the painting.  Maybe they ran out of money.

The procession traveled to a cemetery not far from the church, and we passed by a military funeral in process at the entrance.  Judging from the age of the honor guard, I judged that we were witnessing one of the all too frequent passings of a WWII veteran.  The cemetery seemed to have a de facto organization by ethnicity, Di Carlis with Cimolis, O'Neils with Grogans, and Kawolskis with Grochowskis.  It was a beautiful and peaceful day, and a short but moving ceremony capped by a fantastic song by Bill's son Doug.  Altogether a fitting end to a long life, eighty-nine good years and two bad months, as Bill said.

KEY WEST

Okay, NOT from the point of view of the homeless.  My brother kindly tricked out the old family Previa van for the trip so I didn't have to drive the RV.  He took out the back seats and put carpet over a thick cardboard, and covered it with a sheet.  He left a second sheet, a sleeping bag, a cooler, a lamp, and a beach chair in it as well.  Last time I ws down there I talked with a guy who had been sleeping in his van for three months, and I thought that was just the ticket.  What I didn't calculate, though, was the fact that it got dark at seven and I don't fall asleep until one or so.  Six or seven hours in the RV is one thing.  Six or seven hours on the floor of a van is another.

So I copped out, and went to Boyd's RV Park up the road three miles, and spent $60 so I could hang out at the tiki bar by the pool and watch TV or read.  It was worth it, for one night.

I spent Monday and Tuesday cruising Key West on my bike, which is the only way to see it in my opinion.  Roads cover the island like a grid, for the most part, and I took a spin around the perimeter first and then rode back and forth across the grid.  I got a pretty good feel for the island, I think.  It isn't very large, covering only about seven square miles or about 15% of the size of San Francisco.  Although a million visitors come every year--850,000 via cruise ships--only about 25,000 people live there full time; remarkably, about 85% are white.  The island has distinct areas--New Town, 40% of the island--is comprised mostly of fill, and contains shopping centers, retail malls, residential areas, schools, ball parks, and the Key West International Airport.  It also has the nicest beaches.  Old Town, the western part of the island, has Duval Street, the main tourist street, other tourist destinations, and the classic bungalows and guest mansions. 

It appears that the locals are divided up into the very wealthy, likely part timers, the upper class (affluent neighborhoods of classy homes with maybe an Audi and a BMW SUV in the driveway), the middle class--the bungalows--and the service industry workers, who live in pockets of rough dwellings.  A microcosm of America.

I just HAD to take a picture of this guy.  He was floating out the concrete on a trench maybe four feet wide, and rather than stand on one side or even straddle the damn thing, he was in it up to his thighs, backing up as he went.  I couldn't figure out why the whole thing was filled with concrete either.  Eh--Key West.
Key West's history is mainly one of naval and shipping support, until the tourists discovered it.  There is some fishing and a hint of piracy as well. It was connected to the mainland in 1912 by a railway that washed out in 1935, and the remains of the structure became the only road in and out until the current road was completed.  You really have to want to be there to drive down.

The locals are very tolerant.  Approximately 40% are gay, which says a lot.  There are also Haitian neighborhoods, recognizable by the project-like two story pastel concrete block buildings with colorful laundry strung across the courtyards and old men in Panama hats idly watching roosters scratch the yards.  I could imagine ritual sacrifice and voodoo beside 55 gallon drums filled with burning oil.

The bungalows are lovely, as is the climate.  It is the only place in the lower 48 states that has never had a freeze, and it gets less rain than any other place in Florida.  There is a more or less constant breeze as well.  With the laid back feel, it's a great place to do the Jimmy Buffet thing.  If you like hanging out in bars or lounging on the beach, you can't beat Key West.

The other keys, on the way back to the mainland, are a mixed bag.  There are mansions at the water's edge, but mostly it's either waterfront living or Route 66-like car culture stops.  This time of year the lodging is very expensive.

It was Spring Break when I was there. 


Entrance to the beach in the evening.

 The students congregated on a 100 yard strip of beach on the west side, and the beach was packed with sunburned guys with long swimsuits and girls with the skimpiest bikinis you can find.  I think they may have bought a size or two smaller than they should have.  I'm not complaining, though.  At my age, I was able to wander invisibly through the crowds and get a feel for it again; I went down to Florida for Spring Break forty some years ago.

Lasting impressions: palm trees in the wind, hot sun, Duval Street, blue water you can see through, and laid back locals. 

I drove back to the mainland as night fell, and had some sublime moments of listening to traditional Irish music while watching the sky turn color over the blue and white water.

THE SECOND HALF

I've been ruminating: what is the second half of this trip about?  Is it about seeing the country?  Visiting friends and family?  Meeting new people and trying new things?  Learning about myself?  Developing better skills, habits, and attitudes?  WHAT?

It's about all of that and more, of course.  There's no way around most of it; traveling in an RV alone, by its very nature, involves seeing the country, visiting friends and family, meeting new people and trying new things, and learning about oneself.  The only variable is whether you avoid these things, accept them, embrace them, or seek them out.

The opportunity, then, is developing new skills, habits, and attitudes.

This, of course, is what I set out to do in the first place.  I didn't tell anybody, though.  The last post detailed what I intended and what I accomplished--not very satisfying.  I'm thinking I could do better.

So, this half:

Of primary importance to me at this time is to develop better self discipline.  It is the cornerstone of everything else on the list.  What appears different to me this time around is that I'm less critical of errors and omissions, and more likely to pick up again when I've let myself down.  My all-or-nothing approach doesn't serve me very well. 

Limiting my goals is probably a good idea as well.  In that vein, my goals are:

to meditate daily for fifteen minutes
stretch my back muscles as shown to my by my chiropractor
answer all my email
communicate with friends and family
run through my short routine with weights four times
run or bike
post on Facebook or blog
eat healthy food and not much junk
make note of being calm and present
FORGOT TO MENTION--STUDY A LANGUAGE (was working on Spanish but have switched to French, of which I have a smattering; I have been to Paris four times and intend to go again in September.)

Doesn't seem like much, does it?

My brother Dan has a great way to teach his students how to change habits.  There are four position:

unconscious incompetence (AKA, cluelessness)--unaware of bad habits or things you want to change
conscious incompetence--aware of bad habits and things you want to change, as they happen
conscious competence--aware of the change as you do it
unconscious competence--you do things the right way without thinking of it; ready for a new challenge

Conscious incompetence is actually a high state.  Moment by moment, you can observe your mistakes and work to change them the next time.  You will go back and forth between stages two and three, and it's good to work on more than one thing at a time, in different stages, so you can avoid focusing too much on things ready to drop into unconsciouscompetence.

Dan is a great teacher, very effective.  I'm giving his method a try.

Meanwhile, it's spring break here in Florida.  I've been riding my bicycle up to forty miles a day to visit the different beaches, from Deerfield Beach down to Ft. Lauderdale.  It's great to see the young people congregating and having so much fun.  I lived in Ft. Lauderdale for a couple of years right after college, and it's nice to feel those vibes again.


Ft. Lauderdale



Deerfield Beach

Along the coast, south of Deerfield Beach, is a community called Hillsboro Beach. It's effectively an island, separated from the mainland by an extensive waterway where the residents park their yachts.  I won't bother trying to describe the houses, but here is one of the yachts, easily a hundred feet long.


Imagine the money involved in owning something like this.

NEXT: KEY WEST FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF THE HOMELESS

HALFWAY: PART ONE OF TWO

Well, today, Leap Day, I am halfway through my one year adventure.  I celebrated February 29th by taking a 29 mile round trip bike ride to Pompano Beach to symbolically dip my toes into the Atlantic Ocean, as far from home as I am likely to be, unless I get excited and drive the 193 miles down to Key West.

I'm awash with thoughts and feelings about this whole thing, today. Looking back, it's clear that, as much as I planned ahead, I threw myself into unknown water on the first day and struggled, gasping for air, to find out what it's all about.

I'd made a list of things to focus on during my trip, and have discovered that some were the right things, some were not, some were in focus and some out, and that there are a number of things that I've come to focus on that were not part of my plan.  But first, a digression.

Fortunately and unfortunately, my first month (September) was spent in the company of the incomparable Kelly O'Connor, my neighbor and close friend, whom I had promised to escort to Yellowstone and other national parks on a sort of a shakedown cruise.  He met me in Markleeville and we headed east on Highway 50, "The Loneliest Highway in America," with my Suzuki 400 motor scooter on a rack on the back of the RV.  The Suzuki was a replacement for my Yamaha 50, which was too big and too heavy.

Kelly had been struggling with dependency on unbelievably huge amounts of Oxycodone, Methadone, Valium, Prednesone, and a pharmacy of other drugs as a consequence of ependymoma, a cancer of the spinal cord, and had recently been approved for SSI permanent disability payments.  Since this is not enough to live on in the Bay Area, he decided to live in India or Bali, where he'd spent some fabulous years after college.  Of course, he thought, one cannot live on heavy drugs overseas, so it seemed wise, to him, to quit.  Cold turkey.  The day before we left.

So...the first week was great.  He had more psychic energy than he'd had in years; years spent mostly sleeping or sleepwalking.  Unfortunately, he also had massive, roaring diarrhea, which always struck five minutes after we passed the last gas station for (fill in the blank) miles.  He actually broke the toilet valve at the base of the unit in one of his frantic lurches to connect in time.  We had wet carpet until we got back to Markleeville.

He did not have any phyical energy, though.  He couldn't walk from the RV to a restaurant or store--I had to drop him off and then park.  He couldn't cook, clean, carry, anything.  But he was great company.  At first.

We did some great things.  We went to Dinosaur National Monument, Flaming Gorge, Grand Tetons, Yellowstone, some place where volcanos had transformed the landscape (the name escapes me), and the bridge over the Snake River Canyon, at Twin Falls Idaho.  It was there I BASE jumped the 486 feet down to the canyon floor and climbed back out again.  For those who keep asking, it was a parachute jump, not a bungee jump.

We did have a few issues along the way.  The electrical system failed several times, necessitating a mobile RV repair, and since we couldn't figure out the awning we screwed it up (later repaired).  We had trouble with the main door, which had been damaged by being caught in the wind previously, and we had other miscellaneous issues.  It was, after all, a shakedown cruise, and issues are to be expected as you get used to your mode of transportation.  The biggest issue was that the Suzki was also too heavy for the rack and bent it, almost falling free on the highway.  After spending $5k on cycles, gear, and the rack, I said the hell with it, and have been happily traveling by bicycle ever since.  I highly recommend it to all you full-timers out there.  If it rains or snows, stay inside.

But Kelly--Lord, was he funny.  I've never in my life met anyone who could tell a story or work a room as well as him, and he kept me in stitches (along with everyone we met).  With the passing of the days, though, a darker side came out.  As the drugs faded from his system, his behavior became more and more bizarre.  It finally got to the point where he would spend four hours in a manic description of all the things he thought were happening to him, and then drop into a kind of catatonic state where he wouldn't move or talk. I couldn't make sense of what he was saying, and I told him so; he snapped back that, ""If you were in my head and could hear and see the things I can, you'd understand!"  Since the change didn't happen all at once I wasn't sure of what I was seeing, but eventually it became clear that I needed to get him home.

When I got him back to Marin County I called his brother in Cleveland, and he flew out the next day.  He took Kelly to his regular physician, who immediately had him committed for what ended up being five weeks.  He was put on a regimen of anti-psychotic drugs and is doing better.

Bottom line for me--all my plans went out the window.

It was after I left Kelly behind that my trip really began, as far as I'm concerned.  That's when the aloneness and self-reliance of it all began to hit me. 

My list of daily items, as planned ahead:

meditate
stretch
learn Spanish
lift weights (dumbells)
do aerobics (bike, sprint, jog)
play basketball at every opportunity
eat healthy (no junk)
answer all my email
spend $40 or less

I planned on spending maybe four hours a day on all that stuff.  Since I was alone and my schedule was my own, I couldn't think of any reason why I wouldn't be able to stick to it.  I started off well, with Kelly, but as his condition deteriorated, my attention to the list also deteriorated.  Like a good Catholic, once I sinned, it was "Oh, well..."  I tossed my goals out like New Year's resolutions; or, perhaps, like beads off a Mardi Gras float.

It wasn't a complete breakdown--I've learned that doing something is better than nothing.  Meditation went first.  Same with stretching.  I was doing specific stretches because it ameliorated my back problems and prevented pulled leg muscles, but when the problems went away, so did the stretches.  Since the problems have returned, so have the stretches. It's like flossing--if you don't do it until you see why you need to do it by the damage done, it's kind of too late.  I've always been a slow learner with this sort of thing; a repeat learner, too.

Spanish went out the window too.  Interestingly enough, my Mom (who has never been ANYWHERE) has taken to heart a playful suggestion that we visit Europe in the fall and applied for a passport.  We decided on a week in Ireland and a week in Paris, so I'm planning to bone up on my high school French for the trip.  I like French better than Spanish anyway.  We'll see if I stick to it.

I'm happy to say that I've been pretty faithful to the weights and aerobics.  I've always been an exercise guy, and I guess I always will be.  I just HATE the feeling of not being able to run across the street or the feeling of not being able to lift something.  I hate the general feeling of being in poor condition worse than anything.

I did play basketball at every opportunity.  When I saw a court, I'd stop and shoot, and if anyone was around, I'd always get up a game if they were up for it.  In Texas, I had the opportunity to play in a few private club gymnasiums, and I'd play full court whenever possible.  Sadly, with the last couple of games I found myself with knee pain and pulled muscles, and since I couldn't do what I wanted to on the court and could see these lingering injuries lasting, I reluctantly decided that, now I've turned 63, I guess I'm done. That's simply said, but it's an amazingly difficult thing to accept since basketball has been a central part of my life since I was 13, as anyone who knows me will attest.

Healthy eating comes and goes, symmetrical with (to?) my emotional state of well-being, I think.  Since I'm very harsh with myself and anxious to do/say the right things around others, I tend to mindlessly devour junk food to comfort myself at too many points.  I've learned to look at that behavior as a yardstick of how I'm feeling about myself rather than as a discipline in and of itself.

Email--at least I LOOK at my email every day, and I answer the critical ones.  I thought I would be more dliligent that that, but I'm not.

The $40/day seems to have dropped from my consciousness too, because there is always some exception that necessitates spending.  I'm more mindful when I do spend money, though.  A lot more mindful, actually. 

I found myself doing a lot of reading, a lot of sleeping, and a lot of bike riding.  Everywhere I went, I would jump on the bike and just ride around, looking and listening. In the past I learned, from moving to several different cities by myself as a young adult, that doing new things and talking to new people eventually turns up something unexpectedly great. It's like trudging to the plate when you don't get very many hits--maybe sometime you'll hit a grand slam. (That actually happened to me when I was 13--one of only two hits I got that year.)

One other (critical) thing I forgot about when I made the above list of daily items as planned:  I had made a note (literally) to tolerate my feelings: loneliness, fear, doubt, uncertainty, anxiety, anger...and also joy, exuberance, happiness, love...I am delighted to report that this was the most successful aspect of the trip.  Being alone, I was able to identify and experience my feelings, and more than at any other time in my life, I've been okay with them.  It's been extremely helpful to be able to stay in contact with people by telephone and computer; keeps perspective. I speak often with my children and, most particularly, with my loving and patient companion at home, Jeane.  I talk with the kids once a week or so, but I talk with Jeane virtually every day.  In some ways, the separation has made us closer.  We did spend three weeks together over the Christmas holidays and are planning another week together in Pittsburgh in early April. 

Regarding the people I've met--some are family, and some are friends with whom I've become very close as a product of my visit with them on this trip.  I was always the guy in charge, in the position of responsiblity, so I always kept it all together.  I'm more open, more vulnerable, now, than I've ever been, and I see the beauty of that in the way I'm able to relate to people as a consequence.  I've been extremely well treated on this journey, and I'm grateful.  I've learned to accept, which has always been hard for me.  People like to give, and someone has to receive to let that gift happen.  I've decided to do that, and in spite of the dificulty of it, the results have been outstanding.  Even though I'd like to list all you givers here, I can't, but you know who you are.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Oddly enough, I'm more in communication with my friends and my family than I've ever been. Without boring you with details, let me say that I grew up intellectualizing my communication instead of being in touch with my feelings, and being not at all empathetic.  Spending years with Diana helped change me in that regard (how could it not?), and this trip is doing the same.  I've put myself in situations where I can't bail out to go do something busy, and it's been good for me.  I'm slowing down.  I'm on Facebook, I email, I text, and I telephone.  I'm in touch. 

I do notice that I actually like spending a lot of time alone.  Like most introverts, I've always felt I "should" be more outgoing, more interested in being with other people, but sometimes, I'm just not.  This trip has been great in that regard.  I reach out when I want to, and if I don't want to, I stay within myself.  Works pretty well, I'd say, when coupled with my mindfulness in tolerating emotions.

Best things about the first half of the trip, in no particular order:

Reconnecting with friends and family.
People watching.  I started blogging about some of the interesting people I met but haven't kept up.  I should.
Trying new things: base jumping, Mardi Gras, Museum of Musical Instruments, and more.  I always say yes.
       (Almost always--I had the chance to go alligator hunting right after Mardi Gras, but timing didn't work.)
Mastering the RV.
Learning to like being alone.
Learning to accept my feelings.
Putting myself in unexpected situations and being open to whatever happens.
Learning to blog and sticking with it.
The warm and loving feedback I get from family, friends, and new acquaintances, for what I'm doing.
The feeling of success that comes from taking a bold step and following through with it.
Learning to appreciate and feel appreciated by Jeane.
The opportunity to prioritize.
Falling in love with my five children in a deeper, more meaningful way, than ever.
Accepting what is.
Becoming less critical and less judgmental.

I'm feeling like there is more here I'd like to say, so I'll be back to edit and repost this.

TOMORROW: THE SECOND HALF

MARDI GRAS AND MORE

Austin arrived in Tampa on Friday February 17th, and at 6:30 a.m. we set out in the RV for Bay Saint Louis and Mardi Gras.  We were having such a great time we drove straight through and made 600 miles in 10.5 hours.  Friday night we went to the Silver Slipper Buffet.  Austin tried a little of everything and found some clear favorites, but he didn't do any damage at all, especially not when compared with the 400 pounders chowing down.

Saturday was a rainy day.  In the evening we went to see Wolfman Washington play the blues.  My friend Todd and his buddy Steve arrived around 9 and we went to another casino and another buffet (easy to eat your way around Louisiana and Mississippi.)  Todd's cousin Herschel and his son Shel arrived early the next day with $3,600 in beads towed in a trailer.  Todd, Steve and Herschel planned to be on a float for the Orpheus Krewe on Monday night and wanted to be sure to have plenty of quality beads to toss.

Sunday morning Austin and I drove into New Orleans.  As we walked the streets and stood at the ubiquitous parade, Austin started to lose his spirits.  He wished he hadn't come and wanted to be back home.  He can be quite introverted at this point in his life, and often, when he makes a choice, jumps into it but then second guesses himself.  He began to withdraw.  We did, however, spend some decent time observing the parade of the day, the Bacchus Krewe.  Great floats.

On Monday, the three float riders departed at about 7 a.m.  Austin, Shel and I departed for New Orleans in a car thoughtfully provided by Todd's delightful mother, Carmen, and after dropping Shel off at Carmen's, Austin and I headed into New Orleans again.

It was a long day. We had our tuxedos with us and planned to join the others at an invitation only black tie event at the Convention Center between 6:30 and 9, but Austin was getting more and more morose.  The hell with that, I decided, and as we wandered the city I started having fun looking at all the characters and absorbing the babel of sounds and the mesmerizing whirl of humanity.

We made it up to Bourbon Street, and also to the Riverwalk.  At Riverwalk, Austin stated that he wanted to sit and be alone for a while, and told me he'd be fine if I continued to move about and enjoy myself.  I did.

When we reconnected, it was about 4:30 and we still had hours to kill, so I suggested we go to a bookstore and read or pick out some books.  We found an ideal bookstore near Bourbon Street and spent about 45 minutes browsing but didn't buy anything; it did, however, settle Austin a little, and he suggested we visit Bourbon Street again.

The highlight of that visit was reached when we saw a balcony full of women making young men in the street do pushups for beads.  These guys were cracking off 20-50 pushups for their beads.  I walked up below the balcony and waved at the ladies, then slowly got to my knees and down on the ground.  I staged three shaky pushups and made a great show of getting up slowly, and was rewarded with the best illuminated beads yet.  Take that, you young bucks!

On the way back to the Convention Center, we stopped to pick up a bottle of vodka for Austin (byob), and he took a couple of belts as we walked.  He loosened up quickly, which is one of his dearest wishes, and for the rest of the evening he had a wonderful time and was as outgoing as I had ever seen him. 

We changed into our tuxedos in the parking lot, and entered the Convention Center.  This huge space was divided by lanes where the entire parade would enter, travel through and turn, and back again to exit, passing directly in front of all the tables where the party goers in their tuxedos and gowns waited.  This is the best way to see a Mardi Gras parade; nothing like seeing folks in evening wear shouting and begging for plastic beads.  It's really quite undignified, and yet, somehow...

 I don't have a clue as to the cost because Todd refused to hear about reimbursement for the tickets.

At midnight Bret Michaels performed on stage, and after him, Cindy Lauper.  Quite a night.

I've got more photos, from a real camera, and I'll post them here when I figure out how.

Next morning Austin and I headed back on a two day trip to Tampa. 

If you've never spent a couple days alone with Austin, I recommend it.  Kid's a jewel.

REFLECTIONS

Been in Florida for three weeks now, going on four; a real whirlwind, oddly enough.  I spent a few days with my niece Christal and her significant other, Josh, and then a few days with my old friend from summer camp, Lon, and his family (Sally, Caleb, and Lindsey.)  After that, I drove down to Lake Placid and have spent more than two weeks with my Mom and my sister Pat, fitting in the trip to Sebring International Raceway.  Now I'm in a rundown trailer park in Tampa, waiting for my son Austin to arrive in the (very) early morning for our trip to Mardi Gras.

It's been interesting to go through these different iterations.  I have a little bit of difficulty in meeting up with people, even though I like them.  I'm basically an introvert, and sometimes I have to encourage myself to get out with people when my natural inclination is to do things alone.  I wouldn't say I'm shy, exactly, but it feels like that sometime.  I'm grateful to have been made welcome everywhere I've been and have used the experiences I've had to further personal growth.

Staying at Mom's was very different.  I felt at home in a familiar way, which was helped by the calm quiet in the house and the neighborhood.  I used the time to catch up on stuff like tax preparation and other business odds and ends, and to ride my bike about fifteen miles a day and to swim.  I actually got up to a mile a day, which is a big deal for me as I've never been a swimmer.

I have mixed feelings about the lifestyle at my Mom's community of Covered Bridge, which is an over 55 gated community outside a small town in the center of Florida.  You can buy half of a duplex for around $70k and live very well there on a limited budget.  My Uncle Jack lives there, and he says his house costs him less than $400/month including taxes, insurance, HOA dues, cable, phone, utilities, and maintenance (like a new roof).  There is a clubhouse, a rec room with exercise equipment and pool tables, a shuffleboard court, a library, a pool and spa, and more, all included.  Lawn care and more that I can't remember are also included.  HOA for all of that and common area maintenance is $85/month, less than I paid for cable TV at home.

My grandmother lived there until she passed away at 103.  She averred, "There's something to be said for living where the sun is always shining and the people are always smiling."  Both parts of that statement are true for this community.  I enjoyed the quiet, the swimming, the library, and everything else.

And yet...I found myself fretting about waking up each day with no goals other than to enjoy myself and to stave off deterioration.  I don't know if I could do that.  The idea of living with few cares and few expenses is very appealing, but I don't know if I would be running TO something or running AWAY from something.

Arriving here in Tampa is actually a bit of a shock.  This RV park, while close to the airport and therefore suiting my immediate needs, is in a very seedy neighborhood.  The park was here first, since the 1920s, when there was nothing here but a two lane dirt road.  Mobile home parks with worn out single wides dot the area, and the stick built or concrete block houses here are old and tired.  Dollar stores, bars, and convenience stores fill in the corners, and people of various races and colors wait quietly for the bus in between the corners. 

Lately, I've been hanging out with people with homes on lakes, people who race sports cars, and people who live quiet retirement lives.  It's remarkably and coldly evident that none of those things are remotely on the radar screen of the folks in this neighborhood.  They might as well expect to live on the moon.

I've only glimpsed the lives of the 1% on this trip.  In Pacific Palisades I visited people in neighborhoods occupied by such luminaries as Sugar Ray Leonard and Eddie Murphy, and I brushed shoulders with multimillionaires at the Sebring Racetrack.  Funny, but the gritty reality of these Tampa streets seems less foreign to me than the lives of those people.

Being alone again after several weeks of being with friends and family is bracingly different.

Tomorrow Austin arrives to spend five days with me.  I am TOTALLY ready to be with him.

SEBRING INTERNATIONAL RACEWAY

They say a sailboat is a hole in the water into which you throw money.  Porsche racing, even at Club level, is a moving target that you throw dollars at, and watch the dollars fly away in the furious breeze in the wake of money burning, stomach churning, thrill earning sports cars.

Porsche clubs exist all over the country, for the benefit of fanatics who love the feeling of racing through winding turns and short straightaways at speeds approaching 200 miles per hour.  There are no cash prizes, only trophies, but aficionados are willing to spend as much as three million a year to compete.  It's overwhelmingly a white man's sport, but there are women drivers like my niece Christal, who competes at Sebring Iternational Raceway in Florida.  Florida has two clubs, one in South Florida and one in Tampa area.  My brother, Dan, is past president of the South Florida club and is current chairman of the biggest club race in the country, just completed at Sebring.

Sebring International is a 3+ mile track on a former airport, and the track surface has all the charm and smoothness you would expect from old concrete at an out of service airport.  The track winds around a central area called the Paddock, which has structures housing the services needed to facilitate the 400+ cars that showed up from all over the country for this February 2nd-5th event.  There were virtually no spectators other than those invited by participants; the public races at this track, on the other hand, can have 100,000 spectators.

My brother, my niece, and her boyfriend Josh arrived on Wednesday to prepare for the onslaught.  Although trucks and cars were lined up at the entrance for perhaps a mile, no one was allowed in except the volunteers preparing the site until 5 pm.  At that point, the narrow bridge into the Paddock opened to a steady stream of trucks, 5th wheels, and RVs that turned an abandoned airport runway into an open air bazaar.

Wednesday before the gates opened.



Thursday morning.

Josh put it exactly right.  He said, "It's a slippery slope."  You buy a car, and next thing you know you need tires.  Then a muffler.  Then a helmet and a fire suit.  Then a new motor.  A trailer.  A fender.  The cost of every item is astonishing--five thousand dollar wheels, ten dollar per gallon high octane gas--and it never ends.

Some of the setups have to be seen to be believed.  There are custom Peterbilts towing custom rigs, with full shops on the first level and as many as four racecars on the second.  Lifts rise to allow the cars out.  Many of these rigs are brought to the site by specialists and mechanics who travel with the cars, fine tuning and preparing them so that the drivers need only hop in and race. 


A tow vehicle.



Inside a rig.



The guys who drive these cars fall into two main camps.  There are those who drive cars towed to the site by employees are neurosurgeons, real estate developers, and other millionaires who don't mind dropping a hundred thousand for a chance to win a trophy.  Others, like my brother, buy a car for $16k and work on it themselves, paying the $2,500 entry fee by volunteering at the event.  Doesn't seem to make much difference in the fraternity.

That's really what Club racing is--a brotherhood.  The participants, particularly the many volunteers who make it all work, get together whenever possible to talk a jargon that can be unintelligible to outsiders, and to drive at breathtaking speeds around and around and around a track that takes less than three minutes and sometimes less than two to circumnavigate.  The sound, the smells, the camaraderie--it's like nothing I've ever seen.




Dan in his car before the races.



Lined up to go out.



Dan on Turn 17.  Took four tries to get this shot.



Christal in her car; Dan working on the wheel.

The sound can be overwhelming.  While I waited for Dan on Turn 17 I was nearly deafened by a few cars in particular.  With all the action, the sound, and the heat--not to mention the expense--ya gotta love it.

I cannot see myself in this world.  First of all, I have little or no mechanical aptitude, and even less patience for this kind of stuff.  You have to be willing to spend hours on concrete, working with recalcitrant metals for minimal reward, at great expense.  I don't get it.  I would be banging my knuckles on the car and banging my head against the wall.  Some people have an intuitive understanding of mechanics; they look at something and see how it works.  My sons Tom and Owen have that.  Diana had it.  I do not.

Second, the sensory overload caused by the sound, sight and smell is overwhelming to me.  Add to that the sheer number of personal interactions on a moment to moment basis and I'm up against the wall.  I was able to cope by disassociating myself from it all and floating about as an observer, but while I see the joy and passion of the members of this subculture, becoming a participant is as foreign an idea to me as is joining the army.

                                

TAMPA/SAINT PETERSBURG

Tampa is very different from St. Petersburg.  Tampa seems to be all business, with an international airport and a highrise downtown and freeways woven around them.  St. Pete is more laid back.  It used to be known as a haven for retirees but seems to be reinventing itself, with a thriving downtown featuring restaurants and other nightlife that attracts younger people these days.  The buildings are lower and older than Tampa's downtown, but they have a charm that Tampa lacks.


Christal and Josh in front of a classic post office featuring accessable outdoor PO boxes

All St. Pete's seems to be bike country.  I envisioned touring and examining the city on my bicycle, but I didn't give myself enough time.

My niece Christal and her significant other, Josh, were my gracious hosts in town.  Their driveway is long enough to park my RV (and then some), so I left it there for a few days.  Christal is a helicopter pilot for a private firm that does charters, scenic flights, and government work. 


Christal at the manned helicopter

One of her jobs is to fly unmanned helicopters under a government contract.  She sits in front of a computer monitor in a cushioned chair, in a modified van at the airport in St. Pete, and flies the helicopter wherever it needs to go.  Cameras on various parts of the copter allow her to see what the copter pilot would see, and she sends it where it needs to go.  Kind of spooky to me; I would be afraid there was something I'm not seeing.  She is quite laid back about it.


Unmanned helicopters being refitted

Josh is also certified to fly helicopters but works instead for a charter air company at the same airport.  He teaches people to become pilots (he taught Christal to fly) and also flies passengers, for scenic tours, photography, etc.  One of his coolest assignments was delivering a plane to Brazil.  He and Christal talk about moving to Brazil to fly someday.  Josh is also exploring the idea of taking over ownership of the charter company someday.

We hung out at the house and slandered our relatives for a few days, and also went to downtown St. Pete's to an excellent Indian restaurant.  One of the great things we did, which caught me completely by surprise, was to stand in front of the Princess Martha Hotel.  When my father was in the army in World War II, he was in basic training at a camp in the south that suffered a massive epidemic of pneumonia due to squalid conditions in a rainy winter.  Hundreds died, and thousands had to be hospitalized; so many, in fact, that the hospitals were overwhelmed and began sending soldiers to hotels.  I had heard the story from my dad but didn't know the details.  Christal had taken the time to find out which hotel and to locate it.  Certainly brought home the reality of that incident and that period of dad's life.

My brother Michael made it a point to drive from Orlando to Tampa to spend a couple of days with me.  Michael is a true extrovert, and loves nothing more than entertaining anywhere from one to four hundred people.  Since his job for NetApp entails exactly that, he is living the life that suits him.  He gave me the lowdown on Tampa while we were there, and we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner out, for two days.  Whoof!



Mike is at the right

Over the weekend I had a chance to spend a couple days with my friend Lon in Tampa.  Lon was a camper in a sleep-away camp that I worked at as a counselor in the early '70s.  The campers would spend eight weeks in the mountains near the Delaware River, and Lon, who was 8-10 at the time, enjoyed it enough to hunt me down on Facebook nearly 40 years later.  He and his wife Sally welcomed me and we spent two days visiting the mangrove and oyster locations on the bay, playing basketball and Spoons (a card game) with Caleb (10) and Lindsey (8), and going to the racetrack.
I'd never been to a racetrack.  This track is very family friendly and I enjoyed the hell out of seeing the gorgeous, athletic horses up close, and getting a quick rundown on how handicapping and betting works.  I lost eighteen dollars, but it was worth it.  I also had my first grouper sandwich, and I assert that grouper is the best tasting fish in the world.



Me and my close personal friend, Eddie Jurado

My horse; came in dead last

 Michael also arranged a surprise for my sister Pat.  Pat was flying into Tampa on Monday the 30th of January, and expected my mother and my aunt Joan to pick her up.  When I showed up at arrivals in the RV she did a classic double take.  We had a great ride down to Lake Placid together, only missing two or three turns while we gabbed.  Arrived at my Mom's house in Lake Placid on Monday January 30th, and will be heading up to Sebring Intenational Raceway on Wednesday.  More on that next.

BAY SAINT LOUIS, MISSISSIPPI

I'd never heard of Bay Saint Louis, but when my friend Todd communicated to me on Facebook about a house he had there, I decided to make a visit.  Todd and I worked on a few projects together--he is a hazardous demolition contractor--and kept the lines of communication open.  Todd is a native of New Orleans and went to Stanislaus College Prep in Bay Saint Louis, which is about an hour north and east of New Orleans.

Bay Saint Louis is both a bay and a town, and the town, a historic tourist area, suffered major damage in Hurrcane Katrina.  Both sides of the bay and miles of coastline to the east display the extent of the damage and recovery.  All along the beaches are brand new homes and lots with only foundations and porches remaining; they almost seem to alternate.  Everything is either new or rubble.  All the bridges and even the beaches themselves are new. 

A new home, fortunate to have surviving oak trees.

The house next door--only the foundation and the marble tile flooring remain.

Although the town lost hundreds of historic buildings, it is making a comeback.  Restaurants and shops have been opened.  New and remodeled structures abound, and there is a spirit of hope and an energy about the place.  It's difficult to determine what tourism will be like since it was winter, but the brand new buildings, roads and bridges are ready for the tourists when they come.

Todd and Cheri's house is about five blocks from the beach, in a neighborhood that was not washed away.  They completely gutted their place and added about thirty feet to the back of it, planning to use it as a retirement residence.  They purchased a lot across the street from the beach after Katrina and may live in the existing house while they build their dream house at the beach.  It's a well designed and well appointed three bedroom house, quite a change from a 200 square foot RV.

Since Todd is not yet retired, the house was vacant.  I spent eight pleasant days there, with daily guidance from Todd on what to see, do, and eat.  As usual, I spent a lot of time on my bicycle, getting a feel for the town.

It isn't a large town, so it's possible to enjoy every part of it without a car.  The beach is being rebuilt.  For miles up and down the coast sand has been dredged up from the bay and spread along the beaches, which are clean and white and deep.  Concrete walkways have been built from seven miles east of town all the way to Biloxi, twenty miles west, and you can ride a bike or roller skate forever, just like southern California.  The Gulf of Mexico water isn't as blue as the Florida Atlantic water, but the fishing is better.  Nobody on the beaches this time of year, even on warm days.

A controversial new marina is slated for construction along the beach, with construction beginning.



And--the food.  The highlight, for me, was the buffet dinner at the Silver Slipper Casino.  I sampled crab and shrimp prepared several different ways, gumbo, lobster bisque, and more.  My favorite among them all was the lobster bisque, which I would kill for.  I also sampled several desserts before I found the best ever--funnel cake!

Funnel cake is kind of a cross between a Krispy Kreme donut and a very light waffle.  It is a light dough poured in concentric circles into a ring shaped bottomless container in a vat of hot oil.  When it comes together and turns a golden brown it is lifted onto a plate and coated with powdered sugar.  After that, you add whatever toppings you want--strawberries, blueberries, cherries, melted chocolate, ice cream, sprinkles--whatever--and top it off with whipped cream.  Best dessert ever, better than creme brulee.

Of course, po' boys, fish of all kinds, Cajun food--it's all available in Bay Saint Louis.  With the climate and the cuisine it's no wonder Mississippians tend to be overweight.

I took a trip along the beach towards Biloxi to visit the last residence of Jefferson Davis, the first and only president of the Confederacy.  The Civil War, which was of course about slavery, was ostensibly fought for States Rights.  The southern states averred that the federal government did not have the power to dictate policy contrary to what they considered their own best interests.  Consequently, poor Mr. Davis did not have the power to control the war effort as well as did Mr. Lincoln up north, and so he lost the war and was in many quarters saddled with the blame.  It was a no-win situation.

Nice place he had, though.  Very Confederate to this day, with flags, uniforms, artifacts, and mementoes of southern pride.  Seven of the eight buildings on the property were washed away in the hurricane and are being rebuilt.

All the miles between Bay Saint Louis and Davis's place conformed to the Katrina model--new beaches and new houses mixed with the foundations of those yet to be rebuilt.  Virtually everything along the beach was destroyed.

It was interesting to see how the new construction took into account what had happened during Katrina.  All the structures since are built either on high ground or on high stilts, and they are all built to withstand wind and water.  Of course, every time a natural disaster strikes the new construction purports to be able to withstand the next disaster; sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't.

I took the opportunity to drive into New Orleans in Todd's big black diesel pickup.  I think my RV gets better mileage, but nobody got in my way.  I went to the World War II museum, a first class venue, and got the chance to see Higgins boats, tanks, airplanes, weapons, ordnance, and kit.  The museum also features a 48 minute film narrated byTom Hanks, in a theatre that accompanies the film with lighting, smoke, vibration, and raised/lowered pieces that complement the film throughout. 

There were also historical re-enactments of World War II soldiers and camps, done by veterans with military history in mind, outside the museum.

I also went (of course) to the French Quarter, where I saw a wedding party parading through the streets with a brass band accompanying them.  Even though it was still daylight in the Quarter it was abuzz with music and drinking.  There may have been a little extra energy in the air since Mardi Gras is approaching.

Last event in Bay Saint Louis was the best.  An old barn-like building built in the 1920's as the 100 Men DBA Hall, and is being restored to continue its use as a performance venue for Mississippi Blues.  I got the chance to see Little Freddie King and his band.  They were so good, so tight, that I was dancing in the aisle, to the extent that a black woman, member of a party of three professional looking black couples, dragged me up to the dance floor in front of the stage.  I just threw inhibition to the wind and boogied to the best rhythm I've ever heard.  Had a plate of ribs, corn, and beans as well.  Great night.

One of the best things about the town is the train.  Freight trains bisect the town a dozen times a day on two parallel tracks, and since there is only one crossing gate in town the trains blow their whistles non-stop as they roll through town without slowing down.  Nothing better than a freight train, rumbling and whistling through the night half a block away, except standing five feet from one blowing by at forty miles an hour.

After eight busy days it was time to leave, but Todd invited me to return in February for Mardi Gras.  Austin is flying in to Tampa to join me and we'll race the 600+ miles in one day to spend a long weekend there.

NEXT: TAMPA/SAINT PETERSBURG