March 11, 1997. Day 12

...We get up at 8 or 9 and hit the road. We head back into New Orleans. We get off I-10 and head into the French Quarter. We drive around a bit and park off of Royal St (one block south of Bourbon St.). Feed the meter and stroll down to The River.Stroll along The River and walk over to Jackson Square. Give some change to a trumpeter. Right on Jackson Square there is this strung-out lookin' guy wearin' make up and a costume (sort of like a really lame court jester) just standing on motionless on a milk Carton- hoping people will drop change into his hat. Scare Bear.

On the other side of the square we stop for chow in an open-air cafe. The windows go from floor to 15 foot ceilings, and are actually just giant french doors with curtains. We sit down. This is like being in Paris, or something to that effect. America (at least the one I come from) does not exist here. The weather is Fabu. Order some shrimp, jambalaya, and a beer. Hell of a breakfast. There's a psychic on the street corner. This is one of the more pleasant half and hours of my life.

We look at our watches and decide to skee-daddle (since we need to be in Tallahassee by evening). We walk up the street, where a bluegrass band of happy hill (or I guess, swamp) people playing in the street, which is closed to traffic. I go in the store to get a pack of Luckies, whereupon a lady standing behind me laughs "they still make them? We used to sneak those at school. We used to get caught, and boy could you tell we were smoking!" laughed and left.

I join my esteemed traveling companions out on the corner watching the band play. The leader/singer/banjo player is seated in a wooden folding chair, feet out, semi-reclined. He has a floppy hat and a big old beard. He' young- in his mid-20's, I suppose. His face is calm and tranquil- looks at peace. The fiddler is a woman in an old beat-up jumper. Her bow is frayed and she's stomping about. There is a guitar paler standing behind the seated banjo player. The bass player is a large biker-type. He has a sleeveless black T-shirt and jeans on. He looks mean, but is probably not. His bass is a long rod with a string attached to a flipped-over metal wash-tub. He changes notes by titling the device, as well as by fingering the string. The music they created was incredible. I wish to hell that hadn't left my camera in the car. But what're ya gonna do?

We press on. Walk a block or so down Bourbon St. because we had to. It's a moral imperative. How can you go to the French Quarter and not walk down Bourbon Street? I must not forget to mention that on our way back to the car we saw some guy almost get run over by a mule carriage. The driver yelled at the dope nice and spicy-like.

We reluctantly leave the French Quarter. Up Canal St. and onto I-10. I navigate. We head west for a few miles (which feels sort of odd after driving east since we left L.A.)- but we have a purpose. We hang a right and go north over the Lake Ponchatrain Causeway. What a fantastically ridiculous bridge! This damn bridge is 25 miles long- by far longer than the bridge we drove over the San Francisco Bay near San Jose. They built this bridge across the widest spot in the lake for no particular reason is seems- since there's not much of anything on the other side. I guess somebody important lives on the north sore of the lake and wanted to be able to get downtown in half an hour. This is an impressive bridge. It costs 2 buck to cross. I guess it costs so damn much because it has it's own police force. It's very low to the water except in the few place where barges pass underneath. It very odd to be out on a bridge and not be able to see land. It's nuckin' futs.

We hop on I-12 and head east again. We're back on I-10 again. We continue east and pass through Mississippi. Once we're into Alabama my bladder tells us to stop. And the water jug (our trust 1 gallon Sunny D jug, recently drained dry of it's precious Colorado mountain water). I fill the jug at a rest stop spicket. it looks fine pouring out, but once it's in the jug I realize that it's brown. Doesn't taste too bad though. On of us wouldn't drink it. Nuts to them!

We go to Mickey D's in dire need of some fries and a milkshake- it's too damn hot for march down here. Ordering is quite an ordeal. We can't understand them, and they can't understand us. And I thought I talked so plain that anybody could understand me. Except when I'm down in Balmer, hon.

We drive through Mobile. Now I understand. Damn Mobile Bay is brown too. Upon this sight all passengers decide that it's high time to take a nap.

We're at a gas station outside of Pensacola, Florida.I go into get a snack, and I talk to the girl behind the counter. I feel like an idiot saying this- but she had the cutest damn accent. I feel like quite an alien. They sure do talk funny down here, but with such manners!

It's my turn to drive. Some spring-breakers play car-tag with me for about and hour, but then grow tired of it and speed off. It is getting dark now, and we're almost to Tallahassee...