Road Trip Recap: NOLA

Peeps, my sister and I left last Thursday morning for Florida and made two stops in Baytown and Fort Polk to take copious photos of nieces and grandnieces and daughters that we won't see for awhile. We took our time, which was a good thing since it rained almost the entire way. Wouldn't you know it, while we drove butt naked and laughed hysterically, nobody even noticed. What's up with that, Gulf Coast Road Trip Gods? You're making me look bad! Plus I caught a chest cold.

Then came our third stop Saturday night at the Sheraton in the French Quarter. Ooo-la-la! An important note about this hotel, people (especially if you are plagued by vertigo like I didn't realize I was): the windows of the rooms on the 21st floor are carpet to ceiling, so you can stand next to it and feel like you could fall right the hell out. To your splattery death. Were these windows openable, and you didn't fall to your splattery death, you could barf onto Canal Street passersby while looking down from WAAAAY on high, which is, quite frankly, where I'm meant to hang out, gazing down on mortal peons. Am I right?

NOLA dinner was at street level and we stopped in at Huck Finn's for gumbo and related Cajun eats. Then my daughter and her precocious son showed us around, and I was both impressed and grossed out in equal measure at the spectacle that is Bourbon Street. Had I visited there in my younger days as a singleton, I would have fit right in with the other drunks and worn many shiny, beaded necklaces. Now that I'm totally tame (heh, heh, quite possibly that should be lame), I just pose with big, fat, green grenades of the plastic persuasion, while a three-year-old clings to my back, and wonder how bad it would be if I poked a hole in Mr. Rubbery Girth just to watch him blow up and sputter around the piss-stained sidewalks. And just FYI, that is the real reason people get so drunk down on Bourbon Street--it's the only way to tolerate the stinkies. That said, I was completely mesmerized by it all.

The best part of Bourbon Street? I found the treasure of a lifetime. Oh yes. People, a TREASURE! You see, 25 years ago at a Sixth Street piano bar in Austin, a tawdry pianist (really, how do people say that word without laughing?) crooned about that little-known African pygmy tribe, the Fahkawees. They ran through the plains, leaping above the tall grass to see where they were, all the while shouting, "Where the fahkawee? Where the fahkawee?" I was so impressed by their plight, I held their story close to my heart all these years. And now . . . now, I'm an official Fahkawee, thanks to a little shop on Bourbon Street.

Life is good.

More later, peeps.

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ROAD TRIP!

These two words are front and center of my weary brain—weary because my whirlwind decision to embark on a new adventure has resulted in a whirlwind unloading of 95% of my possessions (you would be surprised how painful letting go of a coffee maker can be); and front and center because . . . well, I'm doing it! I'm moving from Texas to Florida BY MYSELF!

I know. I'm wearing my big girl panties, but it's still a huge deal for me.

To help christen my journey into a new life, my sister is flying out from Phoenix to take to the highways with me on a girls' road trip. Austin to Ocala, baby! The last time we hit the pavement together was Spring Break 1976 and our destination was Rocky Point, Mexico. Si, amigos. El Baja. That trip was memorable for the many things that qualified as "shit you can't make up," and I'm torn between wishing for an uneventful, leisurely trip this time or one so fantastic that I won't need to make shit up. I even bought a groovy digital camera to record anything outrageous—just for you guys. Frankly, I'll be disappointed if I can't brag about at least something weirderific. Like what if there's an old broad tootling around naked in a red hooptie? And what if she's got a buddy and she's naked too? And they're laughing hysterically and snapping photos of people's shock as they drive by. I mean, if I can talk my sister into it, imagine the looks we'd get! Totally worth the cost of the camera, I'm betting.

I know. Just how juvenile can I get? Well, depends on if I can talk my sister into it or if she leaves me on the side of the road.

So there you have it. When last I blogged, I hinted at big changes on the horizon. Leaving the city I've called home for most of the last 17 years is a leap of faith in my commitment to make my dream a reality. The net promises to appear wherever and however I land so I can concentrate on my writing. What cool stuff is going to manifest in my future? Who will I meet? How will my life be changed?

I know. It's the hap-hap-happiest of horseshit, but it's MY horseshit, and I believe in it.

Wish me Vaya con destiny, people. I'll post some of our journey next week.

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