Profile Response: Kevin Young, Del Rio, TX

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Kevin Young met his wife April when she invited him to a Girls Choice dance in high school. April was too shy to talk before the dance, so they exchanged notes. In one, she revealed her dream to move to Africa and live among cheetah. On their first date, April confessed that she did not dance. No matter, her Africa dream alone won Kevin’s heart.

They studied at BYU where April did her Master’s studying black bears, and then at Utah State University in Logan for Kevin’s PhD research on lizards. “We went down the evolutionary ladder.” Academic life often requires moving for positions. Kevin taught in Yuma, AZ for five years and the family recently moved to Del Rio where he has a three-year position teaching biology to current and prospective schoolteachers at Sul Ross State University Rio Grande College as well as Southwest Texas Junior College.

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When Kevin moved from a 4-year university, he realized he had to adjust his expectations to the realities of community college. “Southwest Texas Junior College is typical of small, border-town community colleges that I have seen. The students often come from low-income backgrounds—most receive Pell Grants. Most are first-generation college students. There are hardly any men; it’s more than 80% female. Field trips are difficult because many of them have young children. With so many demands on their time, it can be hard to distinguish between students who are actually trying but just lack a skill set and those who may simply not care. It is hard to get them to communicate, to come to my office for help.”

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Kevin related the story of his first class at a community college. He was proceeding with his lecture, writing on the white board, when he realized the students were simply sitting, watching him. No one was taking notes. He had to explain that taking notes might be a useful way to recall what he was saying.

 

Kevin struggles to find the balance between college-level curriculum and his students’ capacity. “Every once in a while a student catches fire. But that is rare. I am supposed to teach a college level class, but they generally aren’t ready for that. We have this giant textbook, but they can’t read it well. A chemistry teacher I spoke with says he teaches to the one or two who are capable and loses the rest. I can’t do that—I want to help all my students. What am I supposed to teach? I am in education, but I think the system is broken, and I have not figured out the answers.”

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The educational struggles that Kevin describes are nowhere evident in his home. His eldest, Megan, is a freshman at Brigham Young University. April homeschools their other children: Ian, Erin, and Dallin. Each is articulate and engaging well beyond their grade level. Teenager Ian described fractals to me and quoted Nikolai Tesla. Erin has primary custody of the household dog, cat, serpent, scorpion, tarantula, and savannah monitor lizard. Dallin is just a sharp seven-year-old who beat us all at cards.

 

Despite the challenges Kevin is experiencing, he finds much to recommend his new community. “I like Del Rio. The pace of life is slower than anywhere I’ve lived and people are very friendly. The other biologist I work with still collects specimens and we get to teach traditional classes like mammalogy and ornithology. Few campuses are doing that anymore. Everywhere else, its cellular biology, data and statistics.”

He also realizes that teaching at a community college level is an important challenge. “Somehow you hope to lift the community.”

 

How will we live tomorrow?

Screen Shot 2016-03-11 at 1.06.44 PM“I think the general trend is positive. I think we’ll be more connected and realize that other people’s problems are my problems too.”

 

 

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Profile Response: GB, Sanderson, TX

HWWLT Logo on yellow“When I pull into Wal-Mart, I get swamped.” GB is proud of his car, which is a showpiece. The 1975 Lincoln Continental, which he got five years ago, has an elaborate, and ever-changing exterior paint job. “I had a 1971 Continental before that, and a 1968 Seville before that. I have good taste.”

GB is a 68-year-old retiree born in Sandis MS who has lived all over the country. His father was a schoolteacher. GB quit school after eighth grade but is a self-taught engineer. “I have four sisters, all school teachers, but they can’t figure out what I can.”

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GB had been staying at the Budget Inn in Sanderson for several weeks, but was planning to decamp for Del Rio in a day or two. “I created something for people to sit around that I am trying to sell; a large scale metal and ceramic picnic structure. I know there’s demand, but everyone wants to see the first one built before they buy it.” He also needs to pick up his Social Security check. “I would get more except I didn’t work for thirty-one years.”

IMG_5752GB has lived in northern Minnesota, Kansas, Oregon, and Hawaii. “I went to Hawaii in 1980 for a Portuguese girl. Really pretty and she didn’t talk much – my kind of girl. I was in Kansas when I got diagnosed with diabetes. It took me some time to get it under control. Haven’t had a drink since I was 42, stopped smoking at age 55. I lost my teeth along the way. Was going to get a partial in Oregon, but they put some sort of anesthesia in my mouth that didn’t feel good, so I never went back.”

Wherever GB goes he tries to get backers and fabricators for his gazebo. “I figure the basic model will take $40,000 for materials and I can sell it for $100,000. I have this idea for a transparent model that will be worth a million. I keep changing it up; that’s what creation is all about.”

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How will we live tomorrow?

IMG_5758“You live in Boston. I’ve never been there. I’ll come visit you.”

 

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Profile Response: Georgia and Mark, Freedom Pedalers, Alpine, TX

HWWLT Logo on yellowI spotted the two shadows a half-mile or more away, approaching on the shoulder of U.S. 90. A pair of cyclists. As we got closer I crossed the road to greet them. They were traveling heavy: four panniers each plus a tent rack on the woman’s bike; the man pulled a trailer.

Georgia and Mark, aka freedompedalers, set off from North Carolina in August, headed south to Florida, crisscrossed the South and came full across Texas. They are heading to Phoenix, up into Utah and Colorado, over to Wisconsin and then west to Seattle They’ll be gone a year.

IMG_5694Every cyclist makes his own journey, but Georgia and Mark are unique in two ways. First, their trailer is a portable doghouse; they travel with two dogs. Second, they are in their early forties. Most long distance cyclists are adventurers in their twenties, exploring life’s options. A few, like me, have careers behind us. It’s rare to find people in the generative years out on the road. But here was Georgia, Mark and two dogs, hauling everything they own across the continent on a serpentine route.

We exchanged the usual mutual support and hailed the virtues of cycling life. Then they offered a new perspective to me. “Everywhere we go, people we meet who are in their fifties and older are so supportive of what we’ve done. They all wish they’d opted out earlier. The surprising thing is how many people our age and younger, even in their twenties, don’t understand what we’re doing. They say we’re missing out. We think they’re missing out.”

How will we live tomorrow?

Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 10.02.12 AM“We quit our corporate jobs, sold the house, the knives, forks and spoons an put everything we own in these sacks and trailer. We have a general plan to get to Seattle. After that who knows.” – Mark

 

Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 10.02.04 AM“We both had jobs that required we control things. When you work toward an outcome you have a good chance of achieving it, but you’ll never achieve more. Now we don’t try to control things; we are open to whatever happens. As a result we receive so much more.” – Georgia

 

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Trip Log – Day 246 – Ocean Springs, MS to Fairhope, AL

to fairhopeFebruary 29, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 86

Miles to Date: 12,576

States to Date: 31

 IMG_6436I spent a leisurely morning at the Porter Greenhouse Coffee Shop that my host Jesse owns: coffee, biscuits, and conversation. About ten, I headed toward Mobile, sixty miles away.

By the time I reached the state line the terrain changed considerably; gentle hills and broad farms that could pass for Ohio. Around noon I received a message from my New Orleans friend Elyse that her friend Cathi in Fairhope would like to host me. I was making good time, so Fairhope before dark seemed doable.

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Mobile is a challenging city to cycle. As I approached downtown I realized the primary way across the river was a tunnel; I took an eight-mile detour to cross on a bridge that offered me a great view.

Mobile Bay is immense and the US 90 causeway no more than six inches above sea level. It must flood at the mere threat of weather. But on a clear crisp day it was exhilarating to roll along at water level with the sea scent filling my lungs.

I got to Fairhope about 5:30 p.m. I had heard the old town was extraordinary so I veered onto scenic 98. About a quarter mile in, a Porsche took a sharp left in front of me. Surly hit the passenger side door. Paul flew off his steed and hit the pavement.

Everything changes in an instant. I broke my fifth left metatarsal, my left shoulder, and burst my L2 vertebrae. I have no internal injuries, no paralysis, and an excellent prognosis.

Screen Shot 2016-03-03 at 3.22.06 PMThe goodwill I have found everywhere in our land thrives in Pensacola. I’m locally famous at Sacred Heart Hospital where many staff exclaim, “You’re the bike guy!” Strangers who are now friends visited with cookies and flowers. I’ve received local offers of places to recuperate. I’ll likely remain in Florida through March; it’s easier to rehab at the beach than in Boston this time of year.

I won’t post any more Trip Logs for some time, but will continue to post my conversations as I master the art of one hand typing with my non-dominant hand. It’s never too late to learn new skills.

Screen Shot 2016-03-03 at 3.21.54 PMThanks to everyone who’s contributed love, support, and their ideas along my journey thus far. I have witnessed how great our nation is, not through its strength, but through its compassion. I have had one heck of a ride, which may not be over yet.

Stay tuned, because I think tomorrow is gonna be a good one.

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Profile Response: Tom, Marathon, TX

HWWLT Logo on yellowI am not Will Rogers. I have met men I don’t like. Not many. Nearly always middle-aged white guys similar to me in some way, but radically different in others. Or so I hope. I spend a lot of time cogitating over men that rub me wrong. First, because I want to like everyone, Second, because there’s always something for me to learn, about human nature in general and myself in particular, that dislike reveals.

When I arrived at La Loma del Chivo, the cyclist-friendly hostel in Marathon TX, I saw four panniers and a pile of stuff next to a bunk, so I knew there was a guest I had not met. The sun was already set when a pick-up truck dropped off a guy with four bags of groceries from Wal-Mart. Tom had been at La Loma for a few days and hitched a ride to Fort Stockton for supplies. He untwisted a Diet Dr. Pepper, tore open a box of Crunch’n’Munch and offered me some. I declined both. We chatted while he shelved two six packs of soda, a case of Ramen, and a family pack of hot dogs.

imgres-1Tom was a general practice lawyer in San Diego for 35 years. I imagine he was good at it; he thought like a lawyer. “When I pick a jury I either want smart people or people I can mold. The first thing you want to do is put aside the non-critical issues. Get the distractions out of the way.” He boasted of never losing a domestic violence case. I wondered which side he represented.

Tom lived his whole life in San Diego. “Why leave a place where you can surf in the morning and snow ski in the afternoon? I took advantage of it all.” He retired, took a year to unload his San Diego life, and prepared for a cross-country cycling trip. “I wanted to go on this trip in 1972, bought a top of the line Peugeot, but never did it.” Tom left Encinitas in October 2014. On his second day he climbed the pass to Julian. “When I reached the top I stopped at Julian Pie Company and ate a pie.”

Tom reached Van Horn, TX in February 2015. One night, camping outside of town, he woke to blue fingers: frostbite. It took three weeks for his fingers to regain their feeling. He got to Fort Stockton, but every time he ventured east he hit major storms. He decided to wait out warmer weather. Summer came; the days were hot so he got a job as a cashier in Wal-Mart to be in air conditioning. He planned to get back on the road in the fall so he could reach the South by spring.

Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 10.28.01 AM“Living with these Bible-Belters is weird. They’re abusive to their women, mean to their animals, and litter all over. I went to the Stockton Museum. Most of the soldiers who fought in the Indian genocide were black. Do we ever see black cowboys in movies? The officers were white, but the soldiers were black. It was after the Civil War and they put savage on the savages. All over this country there are museums and memorials to Native Americans. Do you see any around here? Not one.

imgres“I have no schedule, no problems. Never married, I have no children.” Tom described sleeping in the open in Arizona and waking with two coyotes flanking him. After that, he got a collapsible walking stick, which he now carries. He demonstrated how to use it as a defensive weapon.

I don’t doubt the veracity of Tom’s stories. I doubt the premise. The self-described bicycle tourist has been within one hundred miles of Marathon for almost a year. He states plans to leave in the fall as if unaware the calendar is about to flip over to February. He’s a three hundred pound guy bunking in a hostel and bumming rides to buy bulk hot dogs, judging the locals for being judgmental and narrow minded. Yet he’s an affable, articulate guy and a great storyteller. If my internal calculator didn’t register faulty math, his story might seem coherent, even charming. But something’s off with this guy I cannot dismiss.

images-1“Typical Texan: the problem is we need more guns. The fashion rage of Fort Stockton is camouflage. People believe that ISIS is in Mexico waiting to invade. They believe that Obama is going to send the Army to invade Texas. Ask them why they don’t like Hillary, why they hate Obama, they don’t have an answer. It’s just what they hear on Fox News.”

Once Tom goes there I extricate myself from the conversation. He suggests perhaps he will ride with me to Sanderson tomorrow. I know it won’t happen; there’s all that Diet Dr. Pepper and Ramen to consume. Still, I get up and out before he’s awake just to avoid the possibility.

How will we live tomorrow?

images“With this election, what is this country going to do if Trump gets in? They’re not talking about anything important, by design. A lot of big people want it that way.”

 

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Trip Log – Day 245 – New Orleans, LA to Ocean Springs, MS

to ocean islandFebruary 28, 2016 – Sun, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 89

Miles to Date: 12,490

States to Date: 30

I rose early, despite my Saturday night partying, and headed to Mississippi. The city of New Orleans stretches far to the east; more than twenty miles along US 90 of mostly deserted highway on a Sunday morning. By the time I reached Lake Catherine, dry land was a narrow isthmus with fishing camps on either side. The lakeshore turned into marsh with flocks of heron. Upon entering Mississippi, I was surrounded by sweet, pungent pine forest.

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IMG_6427I crossed the first of two wonderful causeways at Bay St. Louis, two miles long with a dedicated bike lane: great sign of progress for cyclists. The causeway leads to over thirty miles of beachfront from Pass Christian to Biloxi. The beach at Pass Christian is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen; white crystal sand on my right, stately mansions on my left.

 

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Cycling this stretch was gorgeous but tricky. US 90 has zero shoulder. The ‘boardwalk’ is sometimes only three feet wide, shared by cyclists, roller bladers, runners and pedestrians: scenic but not speedy. It gets more complicated in Biloxi where they’ve built casinos along the shore. It appears to be as big a gambling spot as Reno.

On the far side of the splendid causeway over Biloxi Bay I arrived at Ocean Springs, a scenic beach town. My host, Jessie, took me to a weekly Sunday potluck where her group of friends welcomed me to their community.

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Profile Response: Andy Cloud, Center for Big Bend Studies, Alpine TX

HWWLT Logo on yellowThanks to Harrison Ford, being an archeologist is undeniably cool. “You have your Indiana Jones moments. One day I was out on a dig and the weather took a turn for the worse. The wind picked up and it began to rain. I finished documenting a fragmentary spear point I had found, picked it up and raced to the vehicle to pack it in the collection as the rest of the crew covered the excavation with tarps. While there I compared it with another fragmentary spear point found in that same area the previous day and discovered that the two fit, together representing an unfinished Plainview point. I was the first human to connect the two since it was broken ca. 9,000 years ago.”

Those moments, however, are rare according to Andy Cloud, Director of the Center for Big Bend Studies in Alpine, Texas. Like almost every other job, archeology requires a fair amount of grind. “We are trying to determine the extent of human habitation throughout this region. We do it by hand. When studying an area, we begin with a long line of people moving as one across the landscape, looking for evidence of artifacts. We have a predictive model that tells us, if we find something in a particular microclimate, there is good likelihood other evidence will exist in similar locales.”

IMG_5682Big Bend National Park and its adjacent ranches are rich in evidence of ancient people. “Genvieve Lykes Duncan site, forty miles south of Alpine, has dated remains 11,000 years old. The people were nomads. We believe they stayed in one area for three or four weeks, and them moved on, in a regular circuit based on plant foods available. They used rock structures and caves for shelter or camped in the open.

“Later, along the river at La Junta, near Presidio, we’ve found evidence of agricultural villages dating from about 1200 AD.They lived in houses (jacals) constructed in pits, as the summers get very hot in this area and the pithouses were cooler than above-ground dwellings. We think they were semi-sedentary. They had to stay near their fields during the growing season, reverting to a hunting and gathering lifeway during other parts of the year.”

Survivors of the Cabeza de Vaca shipwreck who traveled through West Texas in the 1530’s wrote about such people. When Spanish explorers arrived in the 1580’s, the local people told stories about earlier white visitors, which corroborates Cabeza de Vaca’s account from another perspective.

IMG_5680Andy grew up in Austin. At age 12 he visited Guadalupe Canyon before it was a National Park. The landscape and remains triggered his interest in archeology. He worked in Big Bend National Park in the 1980’s, returned to Austin to work for the Texas Historical Commission, came to the Center for Big Bend Studies (CBBS) in 1995, and became Director in 2008. He loves his work and life in West Texas. “When I give lectures to school children, I tell them, ‘Try to find what you like to do and follow through.’”

CBBS’ original director, 1987, was a historian. The first Journal of Big Bend Studies was published in 1990 with articles about the area’s history and pre-history. Since then archeology has become a larger focus on CBBS’ work, but Andy values a balance between history and archeology. “History is what we document by written record. In this area, that is from about 1800 to today. Protohistory is the period of sketchy or referenced writing; 1535 to 1800. Prehistory is what occurred before written record, prior to 1535.”

Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 9.49.34 AMArcheological exploration of this area began in the 1930’s but fell behind after World War II. “Archeology entered a period where it focused on sites that were exposed during development. Out here, where there were fewer pipelines and projects, we fell behind.” Since 1995, the pace of exploration has increased. “We’ve made a lot of progress in twenty years, but our work will never be done.”

Andy considers history as more fluid than archaeology. This surprised me until he explained; “Writing is always subject to new interpretation, based on new understanding.”

Andy’s office is full of artifacts as well as history. His ancestor, Daniel Cloud, wrote a letter on his way to the Texas fight for independence that is on display at the Alamo in San Antonio: “If we succeed, the Country is ours. It is immense in extent, and fertile in its soil and will amply reward all our toil. If we fail, death in the cause of liberty and humanity is not cause for shuddering. Our rifles are by our side, and choice guns they are, we know what awaits us, and are prepared to meet it.”

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How will we live tomorrow?

IMG_5685“I am big into gardening and cycling. I am also rapidly approaching retirement, so my tomorrow will be different from many others.

“As a society, we are going to have to monitor limited resources. Capitalism can be a good thing, but it can be evil, driven by greed. I kind of like what Bernie Sanders is saying.

“Some things I am learning about prehistoric peoples I may need to apply. For instance, the aboriginals learned there were plants in the desert, such as agaves and yuccas, that had to be slow-cooked at low heat in order to break down the complex sugars and provide sustenance. They developed slow cooking earth ovens, thermal features that used heated stones that were buried with the plant foods for ca. 24–48 hours. This technology opened up the enormous amount of sustenance available in the desert to prehistoric peoples. At least I know how to replicate these ovens!”

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Profile Response: Alan Dickson, Marfa, TX

HWWLT Logo on yellowAlan Dickson has a sign on his kitchen wall, a list of daily activities. It includes items like, ‘eat breakfast’, ‘feed the dog’, and ‘eat lunch’. Half kidding, I ask if he would forget to eat if he didn’t check his list. He responded, half serious, “When I make my art, I forget everything, even to eat. I moved here to have more routine and made that list when I moved in.”

Alan grew up in Northern California, attended Chico State University, and moved to New York City. “I thought I would stay three months, but I stayed nine years. People were so much nicer than I expected.” Alan built sets for fashion industry events and made art photography. A striking series of women with fruits and vegetables fills one wall of his kitchen. Ultimately, Alan decided to leave New York. “I wanted to build bigger things, which is diIMG_5663fficult to do in a bedroom so small I could reach out my arms and touch each wall.” He travelled for thirteen months, staying with friends and spending time in Chico. In April of last year, he moved to Marfa.

 

Marfa’s a good fit for Alan. He fell into a job at Communitie, a clothing boutique on Highland Street. He built displays before the store opened and now runs their online business. He found it easy to be accepted in Marfa, easy to make friends. “After a month here, everybody knows you.”

images-3Alan shares a house with another artist. They have a shed where Alan keeps his tools and a yard where he builds projects. There are plenty of things to do: art openings and film festivals, discussion groups and author talks. “The culture in Marfa is that everything is free, or minimal cost. The art here is funded by oil money. I get to enjoy the art that the energy guys fund.” On quiet nights Alan stays home and makes puzzles on the large table his grandmother left him. He has a shelf full of complex puzzles.

images-1Our conversation drifted to large art, environmental art. Alan thinks the movement to preserve large-scale art is often misguided. They should be left to weather. “There are large pieces in Joshua Tree that are being allowed to decay. I like to see them; they are different every time. When environmental pieces are preserved, they’re always the same, like Disney.”

imagesAlan enjoys his job at Communitie but doubts it will be long lasting. “My credit cards were maxed out; I had to get a job. Now that I have the job, I can’t really travel anymore. The other day my boss said, ‘Let’s talk about where this is going.’ My first response was, ‘I want to be working less.’”

How will we live tomorrow?

IMG_5664“When I saw your question I was reminded that my school slogan is, ‘Today describes tomorrow’. You can kind of gauge stuff but the more you try to define the future the more off you’ll be. I used to be more dystopian. Now, that’s going away. I’m okay with things.

“I try not to get down on people. Our oil based energy economy was in our natural progression. We now know it’s not a viable approach. Some are pulling back and changing. Some will not be able to do this.

“I’d like to see us move toward a European model: socialism with a capitalist overlay.

“Instead of going to the naysayers and yell at them, do the right thing in your own home and then invite them over.”

 

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Trip Log – Day 244 – New Orleans, LA

to New OrleansFebruary 27, 2016 – Sun, 50 degrees

Miles Today: 22

Miles to Date: 12,401

States to Date: 29

I’ve been to New Orleans half a dozen times: with family, with friends; to come to Jazz Fest, to build after Katrina. I appreciate New Orleans. I value it. Which is not to say it suits me all that well. I’m a New Englander, by choice and disposition. I am prudent and sensible, perhaps to a fault. I’m preoccupied with time, space and schedule. My wild fantasies are just that, fantasies; I have no need to act them out. New Orleans is a healthy anecdote for me: spontaneous, impulsive, unstructured and unscheduled.

IMG_6389The afternoon I arrived in NOLA I had more ‘potential’ meetings and places to stay than anyplace I’ve visited on my tip. Yet, nothing was firm. I took a Big Easy breath and let it all unfold in a rich, chaotic New Orleans way. I visited Musician’s Village and stayed at Buskers Bunkhouse on Friday. This morning I rose at dawn and made me way to New Orleans East to visit a Habitat for Humanity build site. NOLA has one of the largest and most successful HFH operations in the country. Then I pedaled clear across town to Carrollton to meet a pair of NOLA natives whose fathers’ were musician and musicologist involved in establishing Preservation Hall. Back in Mid City I met with a geotechnical consultant expert in the unique combination of rising tides and subsiding earth that makes Louisiana give up so much land the sea – second only to Bangladesh in coastal land loss.

IMG_6396Finally, after an odd string of texts, I arrived at Gina and Phyllis’. Gina invited me to stay but said they were going out. As a rule, I do not stay in houses where I haven’t met my hosts, so I suggested we get together late afternoon. She thought I was interviewing her to see if I wanted to stay, which must have made me seem like a prick. (She didn’t know I just came off a night at Busker’s Bunkhouse, not a place for the fussy.) No matter. We clicked when we met and they invited me to join their female friends to hear Susan Cowsill, longtime NOLA resident of Cowsill fame, channel Karen Carpenter.

IMG_6412We went out to dinner, where I snarfed down a variation of a Mufeletta called a Frenchuletta. NOLA being nothing more than a really big small town, we met two other women they know and all ate together. We arrived at Chickie Wah Wah almost an hour late, plenty of time before the main show stared. The place was jammed. We heard some good original stuff, a superb double drum jam, and a seven-piece ensemble that did justice to all the Carpenter’s greatest hits in full reverb. It wasn’t Preservation Hall, but it was wicked fun.

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Trip Log – Day 243 – Gramercy, LA to New Orleans, LA

to New OrleansFebruary 26, 2016 – Sun, 50 degrees

Miles Today: 56

Miles to Date: 12,379

States to Date: 29

The east bank of the Mississippi River, which is actually the north side in these parts, is a smidge higher than the west bank, which is in fact the south. My host in Gramercy boasted of being six feet above sea level. Perhaps that is why as industrialization supplanted the plantation economy most factories located on the north side. Oil refineries, sugar refineries, and granaries cover former sugar fields with miles of pipes and towers. Conveyor belts long as football fields span across River Road and the levee to connect riverside docks with the behemoths that turn raw materials into the stuff of contemporary life.

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My ride into New Orleans oscillated between navigating narrow River Road and riding the Mississippi Levee Trail bike path along the crest of the levee. When completed, the trail will give cyclists an elevated approach to the Crescent City. Now, there’s quite a bit of up and down involved.

IMG_6344The Bonnet Carre Spillway is a creepy stretch of pavement. The spillway provides a relief valve to divert the Mississippi directly to Lake Pontchartrain during high waters. The dam proper is concrete, but above is a section of vertical wood slats. I have no idea what they’re for, since light shines between them and would easily let water through. A few timber sections have been pierced by floating logs – whole trees really. The large specimens look like toothpicks against the mammoth spillway. I picked up my pace along the low side for over a mile, feeling a need to get higher than the river ASAP.

Beyond the spillway heavy industry gives way to fabrication and assembly plants, residential neighborhoods and commercial strips. From the top of the levee I realized that the streets of small homes sit quite a bit lower than the river surface, even in February when the mighty Mississippi is relatively low.

IMG_6356I recalled my very first trip to New Orleans. I was ten or twelve years old on some instantaneous family excursion my father concocted. We visited Grandmother Schumacher, a tiny old woman, grandmother to our neighbors, who came to live on our New Jersey street every summer when New Orleans was hot. When the adult conversation grew tedious in her Jefferson Parish home, I snuck outside. I saw a hill at the end of her street. I climbed the steep grassy slope. The word ‘awe’ was created to describe what I saw. The vast Mississippi River, one of the world’s most majestic thoroughfares, sluggish green, cluttered with barges and tugs and tankers, happened to be down the street, and a few dozen feet higher, than Grandma Schumacher’s cottage. My first experience of the Mississippi River was perplexing and magical. It cemented my belief that wonder can lie around any corner.

Although the entire relationship of land and water, monumental and domestic is bizarre in this land where low is dry and high is wet, traversing the top of the levee is different from climbing it dumb. The current was swift. A single tug guided fifteen barges downstream, while it took a pair to push just one up. Pipes and conveyors and service roads and wires connect ships and docks to land. Raw materials from all over the world on my right zoomed over my head to be turned into stuff on my left. I sat on a bench, drank water from a plastic bottle and ate a granola bar. Either of whose constituent parts might have one day been here before.

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I left the levee to pedal down St. Charles Street and around the Garden District, which look fully polished ten years after Katrina, even though the trees and telephone wires still sported beads from last week’s Mardi Gras’ parades. I spent too much time meandering the Convention Center area, all new and overscaled. It takes like five minutes to bike around the carbuncle that is Harrah’s. The French Quarter was packed even on a cold day in Lent.

IMG_6369Finally, I got to the east side and made my way to Musician’s Village, where I’d lent a construction hand post-Katrina. I got a tour of the performance and training spaces, which did not open until 2012. Then I made my way back to Busker’s Bunkhouse, an artist commune run by Ms. Pearl only five blocks from New Orleans most famous side street: Desire. I spent an evening, a fly on a tattered paper wall, among heavy smokers with gravelly voices who sounded profound, though I have no interest in fact-checking their political assertions or conspiracy theories.

IMG_6370The exception being one silent woman who wouldn’t even share her name: she lay in her dark room next to mine with a phlegmy cough. I couldn’t help feeling sorry that she had arrived at the wrong French city, reenacting the tubercular La Boheme within shouting distance of where Tennessee William’s Stanley, Stella, and Blanche raised such a sexually induced ruckus.

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