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

LOUISIANA

Sailed across the Texas border into Louisiana on Janary 16th and noticed two things almost immediately: Louisiana is impressively wet, and impressively littered.  The roads bridge swamps and rivers mile after mile; sometimes the roadways are elevated structures apparently built in the '30s to cover areas of shifting waterways that run for ten miles or so.  Railways often run at high elevations as a matter of course, over both land and water, to avoid having to keep changing structures and elevations for the shifting waters.

Where the roads are built on the ground they are elevated and banked like railroad grade beds, rising above swales perpetually filled with water and trash. 

I spent my first Louisiana night in a rest stop, convenient for truckers but not so convenient for RVs.  There was a nice visitors' center with four (!!) helpful clerks to serve me coffee, and a sheriff who appeared to be more or less permanently posted to the site.  I scared the hell out of him.  He was sitting in his squad car watching what appeared to be either a TV show or a video in the growing twilight, and I cautiously moved towards the line of site to his open window to ask him whether it was permissible to spend the entire night.  Not cautiously enough.  About five feet away, I said "Excuse me," and he jumped like a cat when the dog sneaks up on him.  The way he snapped the picture off made me think it was just possible he had a little porn going, but maybe not.  Maybe he'd had some bad experiences with people sneaking up on him or maybe he wasn't allowed to watch TV on duty.  At least he didn't pull a gun on me.

Turns out you can spend twelve hours at LA rest stops.  So, along with twenty-three big rigs, all of whom competed to see who had the loudest generator, I spent the night.  With the smell, noise and vibration, I felt like I was on a salmon fishing diesel boat.  A lot of them kept their engines running all night.  I asked a driver about that the next day; he nonchalantly told me that it was not an unusual custom and didn't use very much fuel.  It explains why I was the only RV.

Louisiana is more humid than Texas, obviously, and has millions of acres of rice under cultivation (it's the third largest producer among all the states).  The land is more or less level, which contributes both to rice production and the savage damage caused by hurricanes and flooding.  It's also a gritty producer, with oil pipelines under the swales and railroad tracks and marshaling yards winding among cement batch plants and construction equipment.  Some of the towns have names I can't help rolling across my tongue, like Natchitoches and Opelousas. 

I wonder why Texas doesn't buy or borrow water from Louisiana, which has a plethora.

Houses along much of the roadways are up on piers or stilts, but not every creature is chary of the water.   At one point, I saw flocks of ducks in the sky numbering in the thousands.  Egrets fish in the swales and bayous, oblivious to the traffic and litter.  Fishing is both a great sport and a means of sustenance for many residents.

Two other corporealities attract attention: it seems that every FM station of any power broadcasts religious counsel exclusively, and in some of the neighborhoods I drove through I swear that every other home had one of those portable basketball hoops with the water or sand filled base.  I never saw so many hoops in my life, and believe me, I look for them.  Never saw anyone shooting, though.

Along the highways between cities the railroad tracks follow, off at a short distance.  Trees, tracks, and trash--that's what you get.

I stopped for the night at a lovely place called  Chicot State Park.  Nestled in the pines, Chicot was a rolling platform for lakes, with RV spots and cabins high on stilts as well as tent camping.  There were perhaps five campers in the 100+ sites.  I had an entire section, with lake access and a platform with a grill and picnic table, for myself.  Lots of wildlife--whitetail deer with HUGE white rumps, red foxes, and, to my everlasting delight, armadillos!

NEXT: BAY SAINT LOUIS

AU REVOIR, TEXAS

Our final days in San Antonio were filled with a whirl of food, fun, and free stuff.  We visited the Market Square (El Mercado) and discovered that the Alameda, a museum, was featuring Mexican and San Antonio art and history since 1910, with free admission one day each week.  Our lucky day. 

Like many museums, this one prohibited photography.   At great personal risk, I bring you this image.

The art, sculpture and history merited a full day, but we could only spare two hours.  After that, we visited Mi Tierra Cafe and Bakery, consuming the best tortillas ever, wrapped around succulent meats, cheeses and vegetables.  Sadly, we had to skip the baked goods, which were abundant and colorful.  We did enjoy the strolling musicians but declined a personal song.

From there, we headed to the Riverwalk, a portion of the San Antonio River that is lined with shops and restaurants.  Since we were there early in the day we did not meet any crowds; the barkers outside the restaurants betrayed a hint of desperation that dissipated as the evening drew nigh and customers flowed in.  Riverwalk is beautiful, a little like Venice in a way, but cleaner.

I called my daughter Catherine to tell her about it, but it turns out she had been there for a conference.  She noted that she had fond but foggy memories of the Margaritas there.

We visited the Alamo, of course, and were suitably impressed by the solemnity of the history of this small but significant site.  It is well tended, the guides are knowledgeable and helpful, and there are important icons there, such as Davy Crockett's rifle, Jim Bowie's knife, and Colonel Travis' ring.  The Alamo, too, is free to visitors.

On the morning of our departure our kind hosts took us to yet another restaurant, where we just had to go to have breakfast tacos.  On soft flour tortillas, my bacon, egg and cheese taco filled me up--at $1.95!

San Antonio is awesome.  We were so smitten we started looking on Craigslist for rentals.  You can rent a three bedroom, two bath house in a nice neighborhood for a thousand dollars.  Not ready to pull the trigger, but...

NEXT: LOUISIANA and BAY SAINT LOUIS, MISSISSIPPI

SAN ANTONIO

Finally left the friendly confines of Flat Creek RV Park and the comfort and relative luxury of the Scale House for the 185 mile trip south to San Antonio.  We plan to visit and perhaps spend a day or two with a high school classmate of my friend Jim Burns.  One of the endearing features about this trip is that so many people want us to meet the friends they have respect and love for, knowing we will appreciate one another.  The people I meet are universally open and welcoming, each an oasis in the desert of time spent alone.  Time alone and the desert are beautiful in their own ways, but each oasis and every new person is a delightful spring of nourishment, unexpected and unique.

Shortly after leaving Waco we stopped for coffee in a promising little town called Lorena.  Surprisingly charming, Lorena has a Victorian feel not unlike towns in California such as Murphys, but is much smaller.  We visited the Texas Cheese House and were welcomed by Scott Simon and his son, as they were making a batch of provolone cheese.  It takes a hundred gallons of milk (eight hundred pounds) and a three dollar tablespoon of culture imported from France or Canada, to make eighty-five pounds of cheese.  The only differences in preparation of the fifty distinctly different cheeses Scott makes is the temperature of the mix and that one tablespoon of culture. 

Provolone cheese in a steel vat; the tall pipe is a screen for the drain



The whey is seen here pouring through a screen

 Scott purchases his milk from local dairies. The byproduct of the process, the remaining 715 pounds, is a liquid called whey, which everyone has heard of.  It is usually poured down the drain but can be used as an animal feed.

The Texas Cheese House also sells bread and rolls they bake on the premises and gourmet chocolates made locally.  The town is so small and feels so isolated one marvels at the ability of the Cheese House to stay in business, but apparently enough customers take the convoluted path from the freeway to the town to keep them profitable.  The other stores in town are also unique in their own ways and they work together to draw people in.  Scott lives two blocks away and walks to work.

After a three hour drive, we reached San Anonio and the home of Linda and Kelly.  Linda graduated from high school in Clay Center, Kansas, a town of five thousand people, in 1972.  She is the creative director for the San Antonio News-Express and is planning a motorcycle trip from Clay Center to the Grand Canyon with Jim Burns and another classmate in September.  She rides an 1100cc Yamaha Star and her partner Kelly rides an almost equally large Suzuki Boulevard, two impressively heavy and powerful bikes for women their size.

Linda and Kelly in the kitchen

Kelly welcomed us on arrival with a delicious meal, and we spent a delightful evening learning about San Antonio and Texas from the viewpoint of two non-natives who have become Texans.  They've opened their home and their hearts to us, and we've fallen in love with San Antonio.

NEXT: AU REVOIR, TEXAS

MORE AND BETTER TEXAS

I'm back in Texas now with my girlfriend, Jeane, and things are better.  Although it's only 47 degrees this evening and has been raining some, the last three days have been sunny and warm.  We drove down from Dallas to Waco to look at a property I own there, and ended up spending four nights at the best RV park ever.  It's owned by an archtypical Texan named Doye Baker ("No L in the name--Mah Momma never tole me where the name come from--Ah thank et was from some handsome train man, maybe").  Doye seems to have built or owned most of the commercial real estate in the area, including the one I own now, and he just built the RV park we're in, opening four months ago.  There are fifty-nine spaces right on the banks of Flat Creek, and the blueprints are three pages long:  one page for the site layout, one page for electrical, and one page for wastewater.

Texas gets a bad rap in California, but they do some things better than we do.  The schools are superb, for example.  Terri Martin, my friend in Dallas, sends her kids to an elementary school with 25 kids in a class, a modern and well kept structure, all the options that California has cancelled, and great teachers; kids with special needs get special help. They're building a brand new school nearby because enrollment is projected to increase.

The high schools look like California's Junior Colleges.

The infrastructure is constructed to keep ahead of building.  In Waco, and in other areas we passed through, freeway interchanges and roads are built--seemingly overbuilt--in the path of growth, certain that business and residential employment and taxes will follow.  In California it seems that the policy is to wait until growth has choked the roads and then try to widen them piecemeal.

There are signs of growth and economic activity everywhere--road construction, commercial building, residential development--things California seems to have given up on.  There's an optimism, too, that there is a future for people here, and there's a kindness and politeness that's real and refreshing. And no state income tax; California's now tops 11%.  Property taxes are higher than California but the money is used well.

Doye has made the RV park a charming and remarkable place.  Laid out on the creek in the center of a 650 acre spread, the 59 spaces curve in an arc that ends at a building called the Scale House, where grain used to be weighed.  The Scale House is a homey structure with a fully equipped kitchen featuring all Jenn-Aire appliances, two bathrooms, two living rooms, and covered porches.  It's left open 24 hours a day for RV'rs use, and although we made it our office and cooking area we were seldom disturbed by others.  Nearby is a laundry room with brand new free--free!--washers and dryers.


THE SCALE HOUSE

Outside the Scale House are some of Doye's vehicles, which include, among other things, a 1911 White dump truck with solid rubber tires and remarkably preserved wood detailing, and a startlingly large hand cranked dump bed.  It was the first dump truck made in America but looks like something from the '30's.

He also has a 1948 Kaiser luxury car and a 1939 LaSalle that looks like Bonnie and Clyde's getaway car.

Four peacocks and one peahen have the run of the place, cadging handouts from anyone passing.  They are so beautiful it's hard not to try to draw them near.  Nothing in nature is as distinctly blue as a peacock.

 I asked Doye how they taste and he said that if they keep pooping on his cars he might find out.

Doye runs about a hundred head of beef cattle on the ranch, but since rain has been sparse the grass is thin, so he took them over to "the other spread.  'Bout eleven hundred acres."  This spread has twelve man made lakes stocked with bass and perch, and a great number of sheep with very little wool.  The breed is for meat only, Doye explains, and their meat is considered a delicacy by Texas' increasing Asian population.  The adult sheep are not large, and their lambs, of which we saw many, are adorable.  The flock is guarded against coyotes by three sizeable and friendly Pyrenee-Andalusian mixed breed dogs.

Doye and his wife Esmeralda are gregarious and generous.  They insisted on lending us their Chevy, so new it doesn't even have plates yet, every day we wanted to go to town to the YMCA, bank, or whatever.  They spend a lot of their time working with a church that supports the homeless and missions in poor countries.  Wonderful, salt of the earth people.

NEXT: SAN ANTONIO

TEXAS. FREEZING COLD TEXAS

It's been a long time since the events here actually happened.  I've been through half of Texas, from El Paso to Dallas, flown to San Francisco to spend three weeks at home, flown back, and drifted on down to Waco.  I have no excuse for not blogging sooner.  Anyway..

Entering Texas at El Paso on December 8th, I made it through and out as fast as possible.  From the freeway, El Paso is 25 or more miles of run down housing, brick warehouses, refineries, cemeteries, and railroad tracks that weave in and out of brick warehouse districts, all of it covered by a smoky haze.  It reminded me of the Paris suburbs, where their minorities are relegated, as seen from the above ground Metro--minus the graffiti.  The houses all seemed to have been built at the same time, maybe during WWII, of the same cheap materials, and were uniformly  lacking in maintenance.  The freeway, old concrete, created a distinctly unpleasant whistling sound mile after mile and the haze penetrated the state, obscuring the nearby mountains, for at least a hundred miles.  I understand the economy is good and housing prices are rising.

I drove miserably through Texas, stopping first at Pecos, home of The First Rodeo and the legend of Pecos Bill.  To be Pecosited means to be killed and dumped in the Pecos River.  I met two genial old guys from Quebec who had more fun bantering in Franglais than I thought possible.  Each had his own brand new $100,000+ RV and they hooked up on the road from time to time.  Both were halfway crippled from accidents and age but didn't let it slow them down.

My heater was not working, I discovered, and it was so cold I could see my breath inside the RV at night.  I opened up my sleeping bag and spread it over my bed, and slept warm, at least. 

As I approached Midland--oil country--I saw oil derricks pumping away on both sides of the road, from the roadside off in both directions, giving the grass, pavement, and the air, seemingly, an oily feel.  It was so cold I stayed at a motel in Midland, one of those sour but cheap rooms that have big, deep old TVs nobody would steal and the room you're in is a no smoking for the night you're in it, at least.  I can't distinguish it in my mind from the one I stayed in the next night at Abiline.  In one of those two places I rode my bicycle four miles through streets where snow covered the sidewalks to watch the Steelers play at the best sports bar I ever saw.

It was so cold I hardly took any other pictures.

I arrived in Dallas on December 12th and spent the night at my old friend Terri Martin's, reconnecting with her two sweet and exciteable children.  December 13th I dropped my RV off at Blue Moon RV Repair for what would turn out to be sixty-two hundred dollars of repairs and tires, and flew off via Southwest Air's seemingly standard three stop trip to San Francisco and home.