A Bluestocking on Bourbon Street

Okay, let's imagine that my idea of a good time is architecture, with a non-fiction book to help me calm down afterwards. Now let's drop me onto Bourbon Street, and see what happens. I wish I had pictures.

I'm not sure what I had imagined, but Hank leaned over and commented, at one point, that it was like Busch Gardens on crack. Music poured out of every open doorway, people sloshed into the street from every direction and in every possible way, and even though Mardi Gras was a while back, a fair number of people wore beads. Hmmm. Wonder how they got them?

The thing is, there's a lot of humanity to be watched, and a lot of music to listen to, and it was fun. I was a little surprised at that last bit, because this really isn't my deal. When I was looking completely overwhelmed, Hank steered me into Cafe Beignet, where we had excesses of our own -- pecan tarts, bread pudding, and, of course, beignets that were -- thank you Jimmy Buffett -- too hot to touch. All the while we were doing this, we sat at a little table in an open courtyard listening to a Dixieland jazz band fronted by a guy who calls himself Steamboat Willie. (I informally dubbed his bass player Slick Willie and his drummer Wet Willie, and that pretty much sums them up.)

Thing is, Steamboat Willie could flat play a trumpet, AND a banjo. So it was good music, lots of sugar, and welcome to New Orleans.

I got back to our hotel room (on the 19th floor of the Pere Something), took a shower, and honestly, literally, do not remember closing my eyes.

More Fun from the Train

Trains are a little bit like cruise ships. You spend a lot of time eating. And napping. And, of course, waking up. These are kind of backward, but you get the idea. Our Exhibit A especially prepared himself for this trip by not sleeping for the 36 hours previous, thereby guaranteeing himself a good night's sleep on the train . . . and a good morning's sleep . . . and several good minutes in the afternoon.


And here are the random musings for this afternoon as well.

The Talladega River. Flooding. A bit scary, actually. This was the first big bridge I was awake for since Danville. Very wet, Alabama.

Pell City, home of the Panthers. I LIKE a place that puts its name right where train passengers can find it. When I rule the world, everywhere will have to put its name out front, so you don't have to strain your eyes looking at auto license plates to figure out what state you're in. Furthermore, I'm gonna require that states paint big, wide boundary lines that can be seen from airplanes, too.

Long Honking Tunnel. Somewhere east of Birmingham. I like tunnels almost as much as bridges.

East of Birmingham. The sun is shining, at least for now, and the wind is blowing the rain from the trees in flashes of silver.

Mounds. 900 years ago, some native tribes built a bunch of mounds for ceremonial purposes. The train goes right by these, and it's very strange. Green circles of earth coming almost straight up from the ground.

And By the Way

I finally fixed the time stamp, so that it shows EDT instead of PST. Woohoo. AND, I will be photographing the room soon, so you can see our cozy rolling home, complete with sleeping spouse!

Rolling Through Georgia

Sometime around midnight last night I sent Sarah a text message, to wit: “I can't sleep; I'm too excited.” Hank was already asnooze in his upper berth, but I lay in the darkness and watched the world roll by, afraid to miss anything. It wasn't until Salisbury that the tiredness kicked in and I was able to sleep. Even then, it was a fractured sleep; trains are surprisingly bouncy. At one point, I would have sworn we'd hit a moose. Sometimes we'd stop to let another train pass. Sometimes we stopped at stations – Greensboro, Salisbury, Charlotte. After that, I slept and did not remember.

This is not like ANYthing we've ever done before. Our rolling bedroom is equipped with a shower/toilet combination that's very weird. We have two berths that we're not eager to convert back to the day benches. They are surprisingly comfortable, mostly because each one is the seat itself, topped with a separate mattress. When the sleeping car attendant made our beds last night, he put the mattresses on top already fitted with sheets and blankets. Hank is napping, in the lower one, despite having three cups of very good coffee at breakfast. The room is compact, the way I'd imagine a cabin is on a ship. We have high shelves to store gear (really only accessible from the upper berth), and stowage space under the lower berth.

We had breakfast in the dining car, beginning while it was parked in Atlanta. I can't get the hang of walking on a moving train. Somewhere in mid breakfast, the train pulled out, and we ate omelets and French toast while watching downtown Atlanta slide by. Our waiter, Leroy, brought us coffee, which he poured with complete confidence, despite the train lurching all over the place. I would have dumped coffee all over me, the dining car, and possibly all the other diners.

Now we're rolling through the city of Bremen, Georgia, at 9:50 a.m. It's raining in Bremen, but rain doesn't faze us; we're not driving. What we ARE doing is marveling that the entire state of Georgia seems to be covered in kudzu. As a matter of fact, kudzu and red mud seem to be the order of the day. It's very green out there, despite the rain, except in the places where the red clay has made little rivulets of water the color of cream of tomato soup.

One further observation, while I wait for Birmingham and a chance to upload: The train is much quieter than we expected. At slower speeds, it feels like we're floating along, frictionless. Of course, when we speed up, it's like being in the back of somebody's pickup truck – somebody who doesn't think much of his suspension.

Preparing for Launch

. . . or is that "lunch?" Today we leave for the big train adventure, and because my brain works this way, I'm writing about it instead of packing. Well, some things are already packed. The important things -- my journal, sketchbook, watercolors, and books. I'm taking Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and Annie Dillard's newest, Teaching a Stone to Talk, and, finally, the highly recommended Ella Minnow Pea.

This evening we take the train from Charlottesville to New Orleans. According to the timetable, this trip takes 23 hours. In a way, I'm really sorry it leaves so late, because I would love to be able to see the familiar country around C'ville from the unfamiliar viewpoint of the train tracks. Goodness knows, when we lived there, we tresspassed on them enough times, but riding the actual train is different.

All week I've been reading voraciously about train travel -- what to take, what to expect, stories from other passengers. Now, in just a little over twelve hours, the fun will actually begin. Believe me, there will be further bulletins as events warrant.

Yoga on the Beach

Maybe it has stopped raining. The sky is still gray, but the clouds are broken, and the breeze is from the west. Hank got up at the crack of dawn and went to work out. About 7:30, I went out to do yoga on the beach, and met him, so we went down together.

I'd forgotten what beaches are like here. I'm used to Rodanthe, where the beach is a steep hillside covered in sharp shells. This is as flat as a freeway, with cute little waves fringing the edges of it. My kinda place. Even better, we saw a dolphin having a fine breakfast of something fishy in the surf, and pelicans skimming the water. Woohoo.

En Route and Other Miracles

It's raining. It has been raining since Friday, which is about how long we've been on the road. Currently, we're on I-26, fourteen miles from I-95, in South Carolina. We're heading to Hilton Head and Savannah for Spring Break.

The point, though, is that I'm updating this as we're traveling, because Hank has a Verizon card for his computer that works anywhere, including the middle of SC, where there's not a lot else going on. I know I'm easily amused, but being able to check email, weather reports, etc., while scudding down the highway is pretty cool.

Normally I would deplore how the technology makes me miss scenery, etc. But the scenery here is pine trees, ranks of them, and rain. Oh, and billboards for Stuckeys. I am happier blogging. I feel guilty because Hank just has to watch the windshield wipers. I'll read this out loud to him and make him feel better. Bwahahahahaha.

We just passed a treeful of Spanish moss. Every time Hank gets around Spanish moss, he wants to bring some home. What he really wants to do is put some in the hemlock outside the dining room and rejuvinate it, sort of like a toupee for trees. I'm guessing Spanish moss won't survive in our climate, but it might be worth looking into. After all, we did get upgraded to USDA Zone 7.