Last Day

NASHVILLE

Our first stop in Nashville was at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. It was excellent and its collections were quite comprehensive. On display, for example, was every instrument ever played by every country musician that ever lived. They had everything you’d ever want to see, plus so, so much that you wouldn’t. We also got to listen to recordings of every country song ever performed, which was somewhat tedious since we dislike country music, but we since we paid to get in we wanted out money’s worth. As with each previous family vacation, Sophie threatened bringing criminal charges against us for child abuse (last year we got the charges reduced to bad parenting).

The highlight for me was Webb Pierce’s tastefully customized ’62 Pontiac Bonnevelle. It had at least six mounted guns (hood ornament, interior and exterior door handles, etc.), plus the upholstery was lined with 1000 silver dollars—classy and comfortable!  One of Elvis’s cars was there, too, a Cadillac stretch limo featuring a gold-plated TV inside. These guys were really went for the understated elegance.
  
Lunch was at a small Italian restaurant near our downtown hotel. It was at 3:00 PM, so we were the only patrons. While we ate the flamboyant maitre d’ came over and presented us with a long-winded but amusing narrative, in which he revealed that he moonlighted as one of Miley’s makeup artists. This confirmed anew Sophie’s assertion that she’s the only person in our solar system who hasn’t met Miley.

The favorable weather that we found in Franklin followed us to Nashville, so I took a long walk through downtown and along the Cumberland River. It’s not the most visually stunning city in the world, but even during the day live music is pervasive. As I walked past the restaurants and bars along 2nd Avenue and then Broadway, the sounds of bands and singers spilled outside, augmented by street musicians scattered everywhere. The result was a cacophony, which I mention because I’ve been wanting to use that word. Alongside the Cumberland River a huge outdoor stage was being prepared for free concert and fireworks show that evening.

Here's a nice shot of Nashville's skyline:

We had dinner at the Wildhorse Saloon, which bills itself as “Nashville's #1 Dining and Entertainment destination and a mecca of entertainment in America,” a statement I found to be a bit overreaching. A more accurate claim would have been “One of the more popular restaurants on the north side of 2nd Ave between Broadway and Church.” It features line dancing, a peculiar phenomenon found in the South. I briefly flirted with giving it try, but decided on getting waterboarded instead.

Afterward we attended the Grand Old Opry. Here I am beforehand, clowning around with two of the performers:  

There were 12 different acts, including Emmylou Harris, John Conlee, Mike Snyder and Bill Anderson. During intermission I saw two midgets. Or maybe they were lilliputians; I always forget which is which.

Following the concert a pleasantly warm evening encouraged us to stroll the streets. The sidewalks were jammed with hordes of people. The streets, of course, were jammed with hordes of horse-drawn carriages. What is it with those things? Can someone please expIain the appeal? Could anything be more contrived? Normally I’m very upbeat and perky, but I must confess that only the prospect of accidentally hitting one of the poor beleaguered horses kept me from hurling road apples—which were in ample supply—at one of those the carriages, as a matter of principle.  

This morning at breakfast I noticed people watching the World Cup, a perplexing behavior I’ve observed all across the country. I realize I’m the last person in America to hold this view, even in the South, but in my view soccer is stupid. Compare it to baseball. Sure, baseball can be slow-moving, but it has a story that unfolds, complex strategies, thinking, and tension that builds and is resolved. In contrast, soccer is just kicking the ball back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and every once in a while—not very often, mind you—someone kicks it extra hard and it gets past the goalie. Wow. How interesting. And there is no difference between kiddie soccer leagues and the pros except for in the kiddie leagues the spectators get more out of control. I find watching horse-drawn carriages to be more appealing. 

Oops, we have to leave for the airport so I’d better wrap this up and then pack.

This time with my family, especially knowing that this could be the last two-week vacation with all four of us, has been wonderful. And I’m so glad it was a road trip. As is always the case with us, our vacation was devoid of disagreements or friction of any kind (the fistfight over the hair holder is easily explained, and there were no life threatening injuries). Also, I’d like to mention that I ate really of lot of ice cream.

I’ve joked around and teased about the South, but traveling throughout the region, exploring its nooks and crannies, and meeting its fine people, has given me a deep appreciation for its richness and beauty. I’m all about cultural diversity, and the important thing to remember is that the ways of normal people and those of the Southerner aren’t better or worse; they’re just different. So the next time you hear a Southerner speaking our language incorrectly, this isn’t something to ridicule... but rather to celebrate.

Norman Rockwellville... or...?

FRANKLIN, TN

No wonder Miley was born in Franklin, Tennessee. It’s perfect.

In contrast to the rest of the South, which gave us seemingly endless days of stifling, steaming heat, Franklin offered us 77 degrees, low humidity and clear blue skies. Its picturesque downtown, bustling but not crowded, was lined with perfectly manicured trees. Everyone was smiling—even the panhandlers, although there weren’t any. Cute little churches were sprinkled about, and every little shop and café was delightful, unique and thriving. The place was so clean that you could lick the sidewalks (I can personally attest to this). Parking was free and plentiful.

Oh, and we learned that you can buy a coffee-book-table-worthy home on twenty bucolic acres for like fourteen dollars. I kid you not.

Everything was so idyllic that, frankly, Franklin was kind of creepy. Something must have been horribly amiss under the surface, as in Pleasantville, or Seahaven… or Stepford, where the wives were all made to become fawning and submissive (yuck—it gives me the shivers just thinking about it).

Curiously, my input was not solicited on this next move, but after we left downtown we found ourselves on a shopping excursion at a suburban mall. As I have an allergy to shopping, and I was hungry, I told Shana that while they shopped I was going to the food court for a “salad or something.” The “or something,” of course, was the key. Even though I’m a noted health and nutrition nut, I found myself at DQ ordering a Pecan Pie BlizzardTM, a low-quality but splendid concoction comprising “pecans, crispy pie crust pieces and roasted nutty caramel blended with creamy vanilla soft serve.” To avoid detection I dispatched this treat with all due haste, resulting in several excruciating, nearly debilitating brain freezes. On balance it was worth it.

Later, after dinner, we all went out to Ben & Jerry’s. I like vacations. 

But Wait, There's More

ASHEVILLE, NC


The drive from Charleston to Asheville, North Carolina, was beautiful. The highway wove through lush green forests as it climbed into the Appalachians.

I had heard that Asheville was a cool town but it greatly exceeded my expectations. It’s a vibrant place with great art, music, and food flowing in abundance. The people are friendly and progressive. Imagine Santa Cruz, mix in a bit of Monterey and Mayberry, change the name, get rid of the seediness, and the ocean, move it up into the mountains on the other side of the country, change its landscape and vegetation, give it some imposing buildings and a different climate, and you’ve got its identical twin: Asheville.

We ate lunch at Suwana's Thai Orchid. I ordered the Drunken Noodles. The waiter asked how spicy hot I wanted it and I said "hot." He asked if I was sure, and that "hot" was very hot. I rolled my eyes and assured him that I knew what I was doing. Later he asked how I liked it and I nodded in affirmation as he poured my twelfth glass of water. For some reason my vocal chords has stopped functioning.

Asheville is also a fine beer town, with dozens of its own craft breweries. It even has a beer-only store that carries more than 800 brews from around the world. I could only sample like a quarter of them before I'd had enough. Later, sitting in a local tavern last evening, I impressed the barkeep with my knowledge of brewing. Recognizing me as a man of sophistication and expertise, with a conspiratorial wink he poured me a “Pabst” (a micro-brew I presume), which he said was a blue-ribbon beer. It did not disappoint, and the bartender smiled at my appreciation.

Last night after Shana and the girls went to bed I walked down to a place called Mo Daddy's and listened to some great jazz until the wee hours. At least I meant to, and definitely would have had I not fallen asleep.

This morning we left for Tennessee, and regretted not allowing for more time in Asheville.

*  *  *

“Y’awls kin sit wavruh y’lahk, dahrlins!” This was the greeting we got upon walking into the Waffle House.® (Translation: “You may be seated wherever you wish, folks.”).

We headed toward a booth. A wide-grinned waitress scurried ahead of us and began briskly wiping the table down, scooping the crumbs with a rag into her hand. “Bin bizyer ehna one-leggd man innah butt-kickin’ contayest, and ain’t got ta this’n yet!” (“Sorry for the inconvenience; I’ll have this table ready for you in a moment.”).

To say that Waffle House® is a ubiquitous presence in the South is like saying that BP is dripping. Their restaurants are spaced at approximately 500-yard intervals along every major highway, leaving just enough space between each for a parking lot. I’m not exaggerating. I wonder how this is economically sustainable, but according to the “Fun Facts” page on their website they serve 21,000 miles of bacon every year! That’s not going to win them many friends in the pig community, but it is a pretty impressive stat. I noticed they didn’t have a “Nutritional Facts” page.

It seems that we could hardly skip eating at a Waffle House® and still claim that we’d experienced Southern cooking. We did have some apprehensions—one prominent restaurant critic, Jim Gaffigan, said in his review, “Here’s one thing you never hear in a Waffle House: ‘Nice job cleaning up!’”—but ultimately decided (with some encouragement from friends back home) that part of the adventure is the risk of intestinal parasites.

The menu was traditional breakfast fare, with a few twists. Hash browns could be ordered a variety of ways, including: “Smothered” (with onions); “Covered” (with melted cheese); “Diced” (with tomatoes); “Capped” (with mushrooms); and “Chunked” (um… ). I must say, it was a good value. I went went with the “All Star Special,” which for six bucks or so bought me a year’s supply of eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns, and of course, waffles.

Speaking of waffles, and for that matter toast, I’m pretty sure that regular ultra-white flour, like the kind they used for Wonder Bread, wasn’t white enough for the Waffle House® folks, so they invented their own with a level of additional refinement that absolutely positively guarantees that no errant nutrients will find their way into your food. Whew!

Another Waffle House® innovation is its “Buttery Spread,” a bright yellow substance which was liberally slathered on the toast, and later in the day lined my digestive tract and arteries. Despite the similar name, Buttery Spread shares no lineage with “butter.” Whatever its origins, there was also a thick coating of the lubricant, or something of similar quality, on the eggs, hash browns and bacon.

Okay, so it wasn't gourmet food, nor was it healthy or fully digestible. So just what is itthat has made Waffle House® such an irresistible destination to millions? Ask 20 people and you'll probably get 20 different answers. For me, it was the architecture:

Well, it's late and I gotta go. Again. Really.

Approximately Chapter 4

SAVANNAH, CHARLOTTE


Do you have in mind that Savannah is a tranquil little place steeped in Southern charm? Yeah…um…well, instead picture Main Street at Disneyland on a summer weekend. Except with more tourists and more goofy characters. And the food is more expensive.

We got into Savannah right at dinner time, hungry. After we navigated through a nearly gridlocked tangle of cars, tour buses, horse drawn carriages and pedestrians, we found a parking place just 270 blocks from the “historic district,” which in most cities is the charming area that locals avoid like the plague.

It was a balmy evening—meaning it was just slightly cooler than the surface of Mercury, but Mercury’s is a “dry heat,” and therefore more comfortable than Savannah’s.

The restaurant search began. Even though we were famished, we have very high dining standards and were not about to settle for just any place. It had to be open, and luckily the first place we encountered was. The menu was extensive and complicated, and for each dish there was a plethora of choices for sauces, dressings, sides, and so forth. We were impressed when our waiter confidently committed our entire order to memory. And it was doubly impressive that he got almost half of it right, his onIy foul-ups being on the sauces, dressings, sides, and the nature of the meal that Shana ordered.

As is our tradition on vacation, after dinner we went out for ice cream, which in resort areas is known as “gelato” and costs five dollars for the kiddie cup size. (We also do this after lunch and for between-meal snacks. When the weather is warm, as it has been through this entire trip, we do it more frequently.)

Early the next day—and by “early” I mean “late,” because Sammi and Sophie have a completely different sense of time than the rest of civilization and think that getting our day started at noon is early—we drove out to Tybee Island, a quaint little seaside town. Don’t get me wrong—it too was choked with tourist traffic and a robust game of musical parking places, but relative to Savannah it was placid and low key.

We hadn’t planned on a day sitting on the beach, which is really nothing that special to us since back home we live a short drive from a nice beach, oh but wait… the water here on this coast is so warm that you can actually go in without freezing your parts off. In California outwardly you act like it’s refreshingly cool but this is a fiction because the reality is that hypothermia isn’t that enjoyable and all you can think about is getting out.

So swimming at Tybee was really, really fun and we stayed in the water for a long time.

After the beach we had a fun little lunch at a burger joint by the beach, for only $53.

Tybee Island is where Miley Cyrus’s “The Last Song” was filmed, so naturally we hunted down a couple of the locations and did our own photo shoots.

We returned to Savannah relaxed and happy, although Shana, Sammi and Sophie were a bit sunburned; my normal golden bronze had deepened a bit.

I’m a real history buff, and my extensive knowledge of Savannah’s history greatly enhanced the experience for me and the family. It’s a sad commentary on our schools that today’s kids have such a meager understanding of our heritage. I explained to Sammi and Sophie that Savannah played an extremely significant role in the Revolutionary War. Or maybe it was the Civil War, or WWII. The point is, it was part of the olden days.

My area of specialization is 19th century architecture, and Savannah has hundreds of splendid examples. I spotted one particularly beautiful brick structure, (which had been renovated as a Doubletree Hotel) and based on its details I dated it circa 1866, perhaps 1867. It turned out to be 1994, but still.

Our hotel had a great view looking toward the Savannah River.

A few minutes after I took this we were treated to a spectacular three-hour lightning and thunder show. We’re not used to those in Southern California, so I had to calm the irrational fears of my poor girls, which was not easy to do from under the desk and where I was curled up purely as a precautionary measure. Also my teeth were chattering from the air conditioning.

My opinion of Savannah improved significantly the next morning when Shana and I left the room at 7:30 A.M. to go out for coffee and walk the town while the girls slept, and discovered that not only was the temperature tolerable at that hour, but the streets and sidewalks were nearly empty. We walked along blocks and blocks of Savannah’s tree-canopied streets.

The town was actually quite beautiful. Unfortunately it seems to be undergoing the same budget challenges as everywhere else. The streets were in desperate need of repair (can you say “asphalt?)…

…and unsightly moss is left hanging on nearly every tree. Sad.

But overall it was nice. We visited the “must see” Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. I’d describe its attributes in detail, but I overhead a young boy walking by and perhaps he said it best: “Tha’s a big ol’ church!”

Shana and I continued with our quest of sampling the local delicacies in each visited region. Georgia lays claim to two such foods: 1.) peaches; 2.) and boiled peanuts, and we stopped at a wonderful little market where we bought a bag of each.

Ahh, the peaches. I picked out the most beautiful one and the instant my lips touched its soft skin, and I took in its sublime fragrance I knew I was in for a very special treat. I took a bite and it was sweet, moist and heavenly. Its sticky juices ran down my chin and onto the ground, which only added to the pleasure. I’ve always been one to enjoy food that gets all over the place.


Next up were boiled peanuts. Let me explain the probable history of this fare: The peanut was invented in Plains, Georgia, but in its raw form was inedible; then someone accidently dropped one in a pot of boiling salt water, which made it soggy but edible; word got around and people ate them to avoid starving. Meanwhile a Yankee invented dry roasting; this resulted in the perfect taste and texture, so the world flocked to the peanut, which had been turned from bad to good (ask me about peanut butter milkshakes); when the Southerners found out about this they wanted to save face, and ever since they’ve convinced themselves that their soggy peanuts are a delicacy, even though in their hearts they know better, just as we Californians know that our water is too cold.

Still, in the spirit of adventure I popped one of these soggy peanuts into my mouth. It was eye-wateringly wretched. Fortunately I had the perfect antidote handy: a peach.

This is why Georgia is known as “The Peach State” and not the “The Boiled Peanut State.”

This afternoon we drove up to Charleston by way of Hilton Head Island (yes, it was named after the hotel chain). As a seasoned road-tripper I’m highly attuned to the unique attributes of each town and city, however the only difference between Savannah and Charleston is that the latter is in a different state, and is named after a dance.

Also, there are no significant distinctions between the various states in this part of the country. Except for their slogans and license plates they’re pretty much all the same.

French Quarter

ON THE ROAD

Dear Reader: Thanks for staying with me this far! (Note that I addressed you in the singular. You know who you are.)

Let’s see, I have to fill you in on all of New Orleans, and the details are a little fuzzy. So, sorry, but might have to make up some stuff.

We vastly prefer the personality and charm of small “boutique” hotels over the big corporate hi-rises, so we were pleased when Priceline got us a room on the edge of the French Quarter at a place called “Marriot.” Definitely French. We were a bit surprised upon arriving to see that it had 42 floors and 1,300 rooms. Sigh. More marketing hype. 

My cousin Lisa complains that so far I’ve done a poor job of relating the “food” part of our trip, and wonders why I haven’t reported the eating of exotic local foods. Well, New Orleans is widely known as “The Wacky Food Capital of the World,” so here’s my chance.
Okay, so I decided to step out of my comfort zone. I ate breakfast at the Krystal café on Bourbon Street, and not only did I dine on eggs, sausage and biscuits—all bonafide Deep South fare—but also something called “grits.” These turned out to be odd to the palate, so I spit them out, but still—if that effort doesn’t validate my culinary courage credentials, I don’t know what does.


To ensure that our daughters wouldn’t be exposed to anything inappropriate, that afternoon Shana and I “previewed” Bourbon Street while they passed the time in a casino. It didn’t take long for us to assess it as reasonably family friendly... were it not for what one might experience through sight, sound, smell, taste or touch. Even Helen Keller would have found unsavory elements. I’d elaborate, but there’s a chance my mom might read this. Suffice it to say that we were outraged at the debauchery.

After several hours of this distasteful jaunt through Bourbon Street we were surprised to run into some very close friends of ours, Janet and her husband What’s-His-Name. What are the chances that we’d find each other on the same sidewalk, at the same exact moment in time, in a city 2000 miles from home? It must be at least one in 100. Anyway, we all discussed our disgust at the depravity. I explained to them that I was just going in here to ask for directions to the nearest Lutheran church.

Shana then returned to the hotel, and I stayed behind to photographically document the depths to which our society has sunk. Yuck. The album will be available online soon for $19.95.

For our afternoon snack we binged on beignets. I'll eat an extra helping of broccoli when we got home to make up for that.

That evening the four of us had dinner at the Gumbo Shop, a local favorite patronized primarily by tourists. I considered ordering “crawdads,” which are creatures resembling giant cockroaches with claws, whose corpses are presented sprawling across a bed of rice, but I was hungry so instead settled on something that wouldn’t trigger my gag reflex. I got the Creole Combination Seafood Plate, which contained no antennae, eyeballs or suction cups. I enjoyed both the taste and the flavor.

Side note: The waitress said “Good choice!” each time after Sammi, Sophie and Shana ordered their dinners, giving them confidence that they each had been blessed with a discriminating sense of good taste. But when I said, “I’ll have the blackened dog poop on rice” and without thinking she chimed “Good choice!” I began to question her sincerity.

After dinner Sammi and I went to Preservation Hall and listened to the last set of the night. Despite being a lifelong jazz fan, somehow I had pictured something completely different that what it is, which is a tiny, cramped place that seats about thirty people on three wooden benches, and a few more standing in the back. No food, no drinks, no dancing—just superb music, all acoustic, played and sung by masters. We and the rest of the audience were totally immersed, engaged and enraptured. Ahhh. It was too beautiful to mock.

The next morning we left Louisiana and drove through Mississippi, Alabama and part of Florida.

A few words about the so-called oil spill “disaster.” Everyone’s all, “Oooh, big bad BP is an evil, greedy corporation. They’ve ruined the gulf for years… blah blah blah” Oh, really? Thank you very much, Lying Elitist Media, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes. En route to Florida we left the interstate and drove the coastal highway along the gulf in Mississippi. The wide beaches along this stretch are beautiful (still!), with pure, fine white sand and warm waters. Normally this time of year the place would be swarming with hordes of tourists, creating a traffic and parking nightmare, not to mention making it nearly impossible to get any elbow room. But thanks to BP, we had literally miles of it practically all to ourselves.

And you should see the vibrant new colors in the water that enhance its visual interest! Still think it’s a “disaster?”

We spent the night in Tallahassee. The best word for it is “unnotable,” which isn’t even a word. Next destination: Savannah, GA.

Note: Shana misses Lola, and I’ll bet that Lola misses her. I just miss her eggs (Lola’s).

Number Two

IN NEW ORLEANS BUT STILL WRITING ABOUT SAN ANTONIO

We didn’t forget to visit the Alamo… we remembered it! Ha ha! I asked the docent there if they rented cars. You should have seen the look on his face! Ha ha!

Now I’ll tell you about our lunch and dinner, which I’m sure you’ll find fascinating; later I’ll tell you about taking an nap, and then after that about going to the bathroom. They say the key to good writing is good editing… what a crock!

Lunch. Given that Sammi is a vegetarian, and that we had approximately 400 restaurants within walking distance, I’m not sure why we chose The County Line Bar-B-Q. Their tagline is “Get it all over yourself.” I’ve always been a bit mystified by this and similar slogans favored by barbeque and burger joints. Am I the only one whose appetite is actually diminished by the prospect of having animal fat and other greasy drippings smeared all over my hands, face and clothes? I admit that I’m on one end of the extreme regarding food messiness—I eat pizza with a knife and fork—but still. I really don’t get it.  In protest I ordered the single non-meat item on the menu, the Grilled Veggie Kabobs, as did Sammi. I suppose it was poetic justice that I dropped one in my lap and the heavily oiled veggies “got all over me.”

That evening we returned to River Walk for a quick bite to eat, where we were joined by roughly eighteen thousand other tourists, all in a competitive quest for lavishly-priced margaritas and Mexican food by the river. Although several dozen venues offered this experience, demand easily outstripped supply and long waiting lines snaked everywhere. Except, that is, at “Rio Rio Cantina,” where we were seated immediately. But our table was inside, with no view of the river, and the interior designer had obviously made a heroic effort to squelch any hint of ambience. Not only that, but after an hour we were unable to catch the eye of a waiter, despite the fact that I had eventually resorted to doing back handsprings down the middle of the restaurant. The waiters and busboys just stepped around me, and finally we gave up and left. I left a measly $5.00 tip as message of dissatisfaction.

River Walk was proving to be a lost cause, so we walked up to street level and found a cute little pizza place, which for some reason had no customers. Perfect! The menu sign was simple, just pizza and salad. Several “Toppings” were listed, and under “Specialties” were preconfigured combos such as “Hawaiian.” Pizza by the slice was listed at $2.50. We each wanted one slice of pizza, plus Sammi wanted a side salad.

Unfortunately, taking such an order proved to be an unconquerable challenge for the employees. The first fellow made a noble attempt, and he began jotting down our order on a scratch pad. But our questions about the fare completely dumbfounded him. The first was, “Can your ‘specialty’ pizzas be ordered by the slice?” After struggling with the complexity of this query, he finally went and summoned a more veteran worker from the kitchen. We re-posed the question to him, but his blank look didn’t give us much hope.  “Specialties?” he asked. We pointed to the menu sign. “Right there, under ‘Specialties.’”  He stared at the sign for what seemed like two minutes, obviously trying to I absorb this new and most startling information. He finally choked out “Um… you can only get two toppings when your order by the slice.”

“Okay, so how many toppings does the Hawaiian have?” This was too much for him, and a look of panicked bewilderment emerged. Apparently it had never occurred to them that a patron might order a specialty pizza by the slice. I felt sorry for him, so out of mercy I said, “Forget the Hawaiian. I’d just like one slice of pizza, please... and my two toppings will be pineapple and ham.” A grin spread across his face as he returned to familiar territory. “You got it!” he responded cheerily.

Meanwhile the Guy #1 was attempting to transcribe his notepad scribbling into the cash register. Unsuccessfully. He looked about ready to cry. And I was already crying. But Guy #2, brimming with renewed confidence, took over. Of course he had to void the entire transaction and start over.

By this time the manager had noticed the difficulties and began to personally oversee the project. The next hurdle was filling Shana’s request for bottled water. Mr. Manager whispered something to Guy #2, who ran into the back. Ten minutes later he finally returned, out of breath but smiling. It turns they didn’t have any bottled water so he had run to a nearby store to get it. We finally got out of the pizza place at about 9:00 PM. It was 90 degrees and raining.

On our walk back to the hotel we saw a number of those charming horse-driven carriages. Have you ever wanted to ride in one of those? Me neither, at least not without wearing a Groucho mask. As we passed by one, I overheard the driver entertaining her riders: “Then after that ah lurned me tah draahv a tohw truck an’ repossess carrrs…” I was impressed that she had gone the extra mile and had several of her front teeth removed, giving her "look" that enhanced the authenticity of the character she was portraying.

The next day was Sophie’s birthday, so when she woke up we surprised her with a party! Even though it had been quite a hassle to secretly haul all of her gifts with us, it was seeing the look of delight on her face:

There were other colors too, a total of like five.

Oh, and we also let her know that after Savannah we were going to drive to Franklin, Tennessee, hometown to Miley Cyrus. It has been a lifelong goal of Sophie’s for like a year to visit there.

At breakfast we learned that the Emily Morgan Hotel where we were staying has a well-known reputation for being haunted. Yikes! This not only totally creeped out the girls, but it cleared up a spooky mystery for me. During the previous night I had heard the toilet flush… even though Shana and the girls were asleep!!! At the time I had attributed it to me pushing on the handle.

Leaving San Antonio for New Orleans, Shana volunteered to drive the first leg again and I accepted without reservation; I welcomed the opportunity to sit back and relax for a couple of hours. Enough about that. Moving onto my writing career, I’ll let you know when my new book is finished, White Knuckled Journey.

Billboards along the way: “Beaver Nuggets!” and “We Sue Lawyers!”

We had dinner at the Blue Dog Café in Lafayette, Louisiana, a restaurant inspired by the Blue Dog Man and featuring dozens of paintings of blue dogs. Oh, and really good food.

Day Four

SAN ANTONIO, TX

I thought that instead of blogging every day I’d do it like every fourth day, to make the experience more fun and interesting for you, the reader. Ha ha! Just kidding. It won’t be.

Simply put, there is no better kind of travel experience than a good old-fashioned road trip. Period. Except for flying first class to an exotic destination, which we originally planned to do but then decided against due to carbon footprint concerns. Also, there are other ways of traveling that are equal to or better than road trips. But still.

We left San Diego on Saturday, and are heading for Savannah, Georgia, with a few stops in between. “Why Savannah?” you might ask. The answer is “I forget.” But this much I do know: our plan is to drive a rental car across the country, then fly back (on an airplane).

The drive to Phoenix on Day One was uneventful. Well, there was the ‘dog car’ that pulled in next to us at a rest stop in Arizona, outfitted with giant ears, a tail, etc. Oh yes, and the entire exterior was smothered in fur. This arrangement wasn’t a commercial advertisement, so I guess it was just an effort to create distinction. And I must admit I’ve seen very few dog cars. I enjoyed watching the occupants get out, which they did by crawling out the windows.

The first night we stayed at the Embassy Suites in Mesa, which offers free cocktails every night until 7:00 PM. We arrived at 6:45 and I didn’t want a drink, but I quickly guzzled two because a bargain is a bargain.

Hey, guess what—I just remembered why we picked Savannah. When Sammi was a little girl we promised her that when she graduated from high school she could design the family vacation that summer, and this is what she decided upon. (Just now I asked her to remind me why she chose Savannah as the destination, and her response was “I don’t know.” So I’m pretty sure I’m her real father.)

Speaking of which, Sunday was Father’s Day, the first since my dad passed away in November. I sure miss him. It’s fitting that on this day I was on a long-distance car trip, almost as if I was paying homage to dear old Dad, who even into his late 80’s could do a 500-mile drive in one shot and hop out of the car feeling refreshed. I’m exactly like that myself except that I tumble out, and feel not refreshed.

Shana and the girls made the day nice for me. The four of us inner-tubed down a portion of the Salt River in Arizona. Our peaceful float was disrupted only by the boisterous Woody-Woodpecker-esque laugh of a nearby fellow floater with his family. It sounded like this: Ha ha ha HA ha, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!...repeated 200 times over the duration of the river trip, echoing off the canyon’s picturesque walls.

We decided to leave for La Cruces, New Mexico—a six-hour drive—at around 4:30 PM, and took Highway 70, which was a quite beautiful back route despite the sprinkling of junky towns that litter every rural highway in the southwestern U.S.

Whenever Shana and I are driving together, approximately 100 percent of the time I’m behind the wheel. This has nothing whatsoever to do with any lack of confidence on my part in her driving—I guess we’re just following a silly cultural tradition. But yesterday morning I thought what the heck and turned the keys over to her for the first leg of the day’s drive. On another topic, have I mentioned that we almost got a speeding ticket in El Paso about 30 minutes later? Contact me privately if you want details. Also ask about running the red light in Fort Stockton.

Later we got stuck in a long line of cars at a Border Patrol inspection station, approximately the one billionth such checkpoint on this trip. I’m not exaggerating. We knew the drill by then: When we finally got to the front an agent would ask us if we’re citizens of the United States. So far none of my “joking around” answers had amused these grim-faced officers, so I’d settled on “yes,” which always got us through (I wonder why the people that haul illegals through these checkpoints haven’t learned the magic answer?!).

Have I mentioned the heat? If not please allow me. Since Saturday the average daily high along our route has been, oh, about 850 degrees. I’m serious. As Rush says, I don’t make this stuff up, folks. I wonder why humans have established permanent settlements in these regions. I also wonder that about places where it gets cold.

We stopped for gas in the “town” of Sierra Blanca, Texas. Judging by its appearance I’d say it has a two-part history: Part 1—some people built the town; Part 2—all but three of them moved away. Is it just me or wouldn’t it have been easier and cheaper to just skip Part 1?

Maybe they just didn't understand economic models. For example the only lodging would appeal to such a limited demographic:

And no wonder they couldn't get their version of Home Depot to fly:

But ahh... the road. It feels so-o-o-o good to escape our hyper-connected lifestyle for two weeks. Of course we’ve brought along various mobile devices to make our travel more convenient. For example, every 30 minutes or so I text my friend Gary in Seattle with my coordinates so that he can look up where we are and text me back with the info. But mostly we’ve “untethered” ourselves from electronics for this trip; although there are four of us we’ve only brought three laptops, meaning one of us is always without one—typically the driver.

Where was I? Oh yes, after the morning drive through Texas, which was stupid, we pulled into Fort Stockton, where the civic boosters’ effort to become a world-class tourist destination was to erect The World’s Largest Roadrunner. Hmm. And it turned out to not even be a real roadrunner, but a statue of one! What kind of losers would be attracted to that?! Anyway, it was pretty cool, and we took turns taking photos of each other in front of it.

For lunch we found a Tex-Mex café with loads of character, where despite the waiter’s prolonged pleadings Sophie tried to order a steak without chile sauce on it. This so exasperated and mystified him that he had it prepared covered with melted cheese instead. That showed her. Then I over-tipped him to make him feel guilty. That showed him.

Last night we finally rolled into San Antonio at 11:00, tired but looking forward to a cushy room at the Hyatt Regency, which we got through Priceline because we got a $400 room for like 12 dollars. Okay, it was more than that, but I occasionally use mild embellishment to make stories more amazing. Anyway, it turned out to be a hideous rat hole, but we suffered through it and this morning we moved to the Emily Morgan Hotel, which is easily the finest hotel in the history of civilization. That’s where we are right now, and out the window I can see the Alamo. We’ll visit that of course, and later I plan to make a joke about remembering (or forgetting) the Alamo, or about Alamo car rentals. I’ll see what I can come up with, but I feel like I can’t go wrong either way.

One last thing: We had lunch alongside River Walk, which after Sea World is San Antonio’s most famous attraction. I’d write about it, but can you please just look it up on Wikipedia to save me the trouble?