very superstitious, writing's on the wall

If you are a superstitious person, the past day would have sent you running for cover. After two straight days of rain--in California of all places--there was a light drizzle when we left Berkley this morning.

I try to avoid using CDs or MP3 players during road trips so that I can listen to local radio stations. A great testament to the power of the Internet and domestic globalization, nearly every radio station is identical to the next from Britney Spears' latest single to the same low-budget commercials advertising Joe's Shop for Whatever. And when I'm tired of hearing about when Katy Perry kissed a girl and liked it, or when the bloviating Rush Limbaugh denounces President Obama as the Antichrist, I switch to NPR for a solid dose of pinko communist propaganda.

This morning NPR had a segment on tonight's full moon that included some obscure trivia on how the Earth is, at any one moment, half covered in light and half covered in shadow. I'm glad the producers at NPR dispatched brilliant scientific minds to uncover this mystery of the stars. What they failed to mention, however, was that a full moon is known to induce strange behavior in both humans and nature.

We drove up the north coast of California to Redwood National Park and the rain subsided. The redwood groves that stretch from San Francisco to the Oregon border are the only old-growth forests left in the United States and the last remaining redwoods in the world. Further, these forests contain plant species that have outlasted the dinosaurs. Wandering among the 300-foot redwoods and pushing aside the descendants of pre-historic ferns is the closest one can get to experiencing what life was like while dinosaurs still roamed the Earth. I half expected to see a Tyrannosaurus Rex come crashing through the undergrowth.


As we fast-fowarded to the present and began to weave through the Cascade Mountains towards Oregon, the rain returned and quickly became snow. From that point on, the weather seemed to change by the mile. The snow gave way to rain until blue skies parted the clouds for a instant before disappearing behind clouds and more rain. Fifty miles outside of Klamath Falls, the highway climbed up into the Cascades, the temperature dropped fifteen degrees and a drizzle became a blizzard. The road was quickly vanishing beneath the snow, but there were barely visible tracks and what appeared to be salt and sand preventing slippery conditions. Twenty miles later we caught up with the salt truck that had been providing the Vibe with so much traction. We followed the truck for another ten miles until the snow suddenly subsided and the roads cleared and were even dry. It was as if we had walked through a door separating a storm system and clear skies.


The sky was eerily beautiful and the brilliance of the full moon illuminated the landscape in a fluorescent light. Occasionally thin clouds would dissipate some of the light, but when the moon emerged the snow on the hillsides would light up like a white T-shirt underneath a black light. And if the day hadn't been strange enough, we pulled into Klamath Falls around eight and decided to eat at a BBQ joint that received rave reviews from the locals. While I was a little hesitant to accept BBQ in the Pacific Northwest, the food was great, better than most BBQ places in DC.

Now I'm pondering a jump in the heated pool here at the hotel. Tomorrow morning we are heading up to Crater Lake.

I only took a couple of pictures today and will update on Wednesday.

how the west was won

Pictures have been updated and are here.

The road to Las Vegas passes through the Lake Meade Recreation Area and over the Hoover Dam. A Depression-era engineering feat, the Hoover Dam is best known for housing Megatron until his escape and demise at the hands of Shia Labeouf in the streets of Los Angeles. Standing on the dam looking down towards the Colorado River more than 700 feet below, the first thought in your head is a breathtaking, "Holy shit," followed shortly by, "How the heck was such an incredible piece of engineering built back in 1935?"

The Hoover Dam also marks the border between Arizona and Nevada. This change is noted, not by a change in scenery, but by the casino located about a mile from the dam. This establishment is placed strategically in case you cannot wait to flush money away in Las Vegas. If you can avoid the urge to gamble for thirty minutes, your patience is rewarded with a sweeping view of Vegas as the mountains fade into the desert.

Las Vegas was once the nation's fastest growing city; now it has one of the highest foreclosure rates. Nevertheless, the Strip at night is electrifying and overflowing with hundred thousand dollar cars, gambling addicts and illegal immigrants who are paid to hand out advertisements for strip clubs and escort services. Even if your idea of a good time is not losing exorbitant amounts of money in mere seconds, it's impossible to not be excited by the flashing lights and the whirring of slot machines.

I met up with some friends who were staying at the Venetian on business and after a few drinks in the hotel, we hit up the casinos. I threw down $50 at the blackjack table and was out after eight hands. My friend lost $400. With only $1 left--that I was willing to spend--I sat down at the penny slots and walked away 24 cents richer. I proceeded to lose the entire $1.24 playing video poker while waiting for a drink at the bar. After all that excitement, we wandered around Caesar's Palace until we realized it was two in the morning and my friends needed to be up for work in three hours. It was off to bed for a quick nap and a drive to Los Angeles the next day.

While watching the Weather Channel the next day, I noticed the forecast called for clear skies across the country and rain throughout the entire state of California. Four hours and a few hundred miles later we were sitting on I-10 in Los Angeles, stuck in rush hour traffic and the only day of rain the city will see all year. Another hour and ten miles later, we had parked and were sitting in the Broadway Deli, a great restaurant on the Santa Monica promenade. Afterwards, I met up with my brother and some of his friends at a bar near his office.


My brother and his friends work in Hollywood and, consequently, are the only people I really enjoy hearing talk shop. They never fail to have the inside scoop on celebrities or movies that you can't get on any entertainment blog. When we left LA to begin driving up the Pacific coast I was up-to-date on all the latest Hollywood gossip.

We spent the night in a small town north of Santa Barbara and woke up to more gray skies and pounding rain. I planned to spend the day cruising along the Pacific Coast Highway and rain was certainly not an integral part of that plan. Fortunately, whether by luck or divine providence, the rain slowed to a drizzle and when we hit the coast the clouds parted and the sun broke through.

Driving along the PCH is like every experience in the west: dramatic. The highway snakes around cliffs that fall hundreds of feet into the Pacific Ocean. We stopped in Big Sur and hiked down to one of the many beaches where writers such as Henry Miller, Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Kerouac found peace, beauty and inspiration.


You really haven't seen a coastline until you've visited Big Sur. The isolation, the pristine beaches, the jagged rocks and cliffs all contribute to a landscape that can only be described as epic. I spent half an hour sitting on the beach staring at the surf and breathing the sea air wondering why the American West was gifted with such incredible beauty. I also wondered why anyone would live on the East Coast when the West has so much more to offer. I live in the East and couldn't give myself an adequate answer.

The sunshine and perfect 65 degree temperature made leaving an arduous task. It was time to press on to San Francisco where we would be spending the next two nights in Berkeley.

I have never been to San Francisco and the city exceeded my expectations in many ways. First off, the city was much bigger than I had ever imagined. My previous knowledge of San Francisco revolved around Grand Theft Auto III and a couple of racing video games where you speed up and down the hilly streets in a Corvette. Two of my friends were in the city this weekend (one actually lives in LA) and they took us on an extensive driving tour that covered nearly every major sight in the city. We went from Coit Tower to the famous switchbacking Lombard Street to Golden Gate Park to the Haight where the hippie movement and the Grateful Dead were born in the 60s.


Again the weather was miserable and a thick fog covered most of the city. However, luck was on our side as we arrived at Golden Gate Park. As we turned a corner for a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the fog lifted, the sun emerged and the bay was bathed in sunlight. Shortly thereafter the clouds reclaimed the sky and the rain returned, but not before we saw the Golden Gate Bridge underneath blue skies.


Tomorrow morning we are leaving for Redwood National Park on the way to Seattle. I would expect the next update by Wednesday night at the latest.

the sun sets in the west; in arizona actually

Road Warrior Report
Days on the Road: 10
Miles Driven: 4774
States Visited: VA, NC, SC, GA, FL, AL, MS, LA, TN, AR, OK, TX, NM, AZ, NV

In a Calvin and Hobbes comic, Calvin asks his dad where the sun goes when it sets. Calvin's father, the consummate sarcastic ass, replies, "The sun sets in the west. In Arizona actually, near Flagstaff. That's why the rocks there are so red."

The rocks in Flagstaff are not actually red. In fact, most of them were covered in snow when I drove through the city en route to the Grand Canyon.

I arrived at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon just after eight in the morning. If anyone recalls, shortly after my trip to Peru last year, I declared that the Grand Canyon was a puddle of mud compared to Peru's Colca Canyon. I was terribly wrong. While the Colca Canyon is unmatched in terms of depth and sheerness of the canyon walls, the Grand Canyon is one of nature's greatest accomplishments. The canyon lies among an elite group of naturescapes--including Yosemite--that are impossible to properly describe with any adjective in the English language.

Originally I had planned to hike the eighteen miles down to Phantom Ranch on the canyon floor. However, I was heading to Las Vegas that evening and the park ranger warned me that it was pure insanity to attempt that hike in one day. Instead I decided to make my way down the Bright Angel Trail and see how far I could get by noon. To be honest, I was a little concerned the icy conditions and the eventual hike up would make me wish I had just stayed at the top.

The first quarter mile was pretty dicey due to a thick layer of ice covering the trail. A hiker I passed remarked that I had pretty good traction and I replied, "Yeah, I've got great boots, but I shouldn't say that because I'll end up slipping and falling off the cliff in five minutes." I didn't tumble off the cliff, but five minutes later I slipped and fell on my behind.

The best time of year to visit the Grand Canyon is late winter/early spring. There were probably ten other people in the park besides myself, and the daytime temperature on the canyon floor was only seventy degrees. Snow and ice are present on the rim and the first five hundred feet into the canyon, but get a little further down and the trails are impeccable.

After an hour of hiking I was at Indian Gardens, 4.6 miles and 3060 vertical feet from the rim. Emboldened by the speed of my descent I hiked on to Plateau Point, another 1.5 miles and undoubtedly one of the best decisions I've ever made. While the trail to Phantom Ranch continues to dive towards the bottom, the Point trail winds across a plateau that extends into the middle of the canyon and abruptly ends with a 2000 foot drop into the Colorado River. It's an unbelievable experience to be strolling along this plateau with a uninterrupted panoramic view of the entire canyon. Further, I was the only person on the plateau for nearly an hour, other than the condor that was nested about twenty feet away.

The hike up was surprisingly easy. I left the plateau a little before noon and was standing on the rim at two. That's 6.1 miles and about 3150 feet in just over two hours. The Park Service has a billboard at the trailhead that is full of warnings like: "Make sure you bring this, this and this or you will DIE! Or worse, we'll have to come rescue your dumb ass." The billboard also had a list of the time estimates for hiking the trail. I got out my camera to take a picture for future reference and a woman came up behind me and said, "Taking a picture to prove you were here?" "No," I replied. "I'm taking a picture because this billboard says it would take 8-12 hours to hike the trail I just came off of and I did it in five." Apparently when the Park Service performs trail estimates they assume everyone hiking either has a walker or is in a wheel chair.

After sitting on the rim and staring off into the distance for an hour or so, I got in the car and left for Las Vegas.

Lack of pictures is unavoidable due to slow computers and not enough time.

the hills have eyes, and undercover cops

For anyone who thought I was joking about actually quiting, noticed I haven't posted in three days and might have, just a little, worried I was serious, I apologize. After leaving Memphis, I drove for thirteen hours and over 1,000 miles to Santa Fe, New Mexico. After a day in the wilderness outside of Los Alamos followed by a day at the Grand Canyon, I am now sitting in a hotel room at the Venetian in Las Vegas. But before I continue, let's get to the details.

When you embark on a thirteen hour drive, there is a certain adrenaline rush because you are really on the road now, no more amateurish six or nine hour drives. That rush lasts about twenty seconds when you realize you are really on the road. In retrospect, such a long drive from Tennessee to New Mexico was worth it because, honestly, what is there to see in Arkansas, northern Texas, or any of Oklahoma?

The first hour passed uneventfully because my mind was preoccupied with the frustration of going to both Graceland and the National Civil Rights Museum only to find they were closed on Tuesdays. In no time at all, the rolling Arkansas landscape morphed into the pancake flat Oklahoma and then the even more flat Texas panhandle, and I desperately struggled to find ways to avoid, what seemed at the time, to be imminent insanity.

I stared at the clouds and tried to describe them using similes. I picked out constellations among the splattered insects on my windshield. I realized the girls at the gas station in Arkansas had accents that made them sound like Goofy: "Uhuh golly mister, here's yer receipt!" I considered whether the agony involved in continuing my drive would be worse than the aftermath of speeding up to 100 mph and letting go of the wheel. It was close.

Somewhere in the middle of Texas, I was pulled over for doing well over the speed limit. My first thought was not, "Crap, I just got pulled over." Instead an episode of Seinfeld came to mind, only I didn't have a beautiful woman with me to sweet talk the officer. When the officer asked me the requisite, "Do you know how fast you were going?" I replied, "Pretty darn fast!" He asked me where was I going in such a hurry and I told him I just wanted to get to Santa Fe as fast as possible. Apparently, the officer valued honesty and he let me off with a warning. I got lucky. Rest assured I've been driving [close] to the speed limit ever since.

When I crossed the border into New Mexico the sun had set, but the moon and millions of stars illuminated the landscape. The last time I had seen New Mexico was in the movie The Hills Have Eyes. If you haven't seen it and you like gratuitous violence and radiated mutants living in the New Mexico desert, I strongly recommend it. After turning off the interstate onto a state route that would take me to Santa Fe, all my mind could do was conjure images from the movie. I kept looking for a shadowy figure to roll tire spikes onto the road causing me to careen into a ditch whereupon a cadre of mutants would drag me into a nearby cave. Much to my relief nothing of interest occurred, though I swear I saw a UFO.

The next morning I drove to Bandelier National Monument. Near the base of the Jemez Mountains, the Frijoles Canyon hides the remnants of a pre-Columbian Pueblo settlement. The park is a real gem that most people have never heard of and apparently receives less than 300,000 visitors a year, according to the park ranger. Carlsbad Caverns, which is the only "National Park" in New Mexico, garners infinitely more attention--a sore spot among many in the Park Service.

I spent the morning wandering among the cliff dwellings in awe at what the ancestral Pueblos had accomplished. The Spanish never found this settlement because many years before, a combination of drought and the depletion of resources forced the Pueblo to abandon the canyon and settle along the nearby Rio Grande River. The Spanish then found and proceeded to slaughter and enslave the Pueblo until the U.S. Government forced them onto reservations.

Ladders provided by the Park Service made several of the dwellings accessible and, unlike at Jamestown, I definitely could have lived in those caves. Tucked away in a small canyon, surrounded by pine trees and a small river, it was a picture perfect setting. The canyon itself was fascinating. One side was a steep slope covered in brush and melting snow. On the other, a sheer cliff with holes that looked like a very large man had lost his temper and began driving his fist through the dusty red rock.

On the way back to Santa Fe, I stopped in Los Alamos, the birthplace of the atomic bomb. Formally the mysterious P.O. Box 1663, Los Alamos is now open to the public and has a number of museums detailing the history of the town.

Santa Fe was beyond disappointing. People always describe Santa Fe as a charming little dream come true for starving artists and Georgia O'Keeffe fanatics. The city sprawls across the New Mexico desert and I failed to find any charm. The historic downtown area is a poor, Americanized attempt at the Spanish Plaza de Armas. The adobe buildings were tacky and the city's "cathedral" was covered in scaffolding. On one side of the plaza, a group of Pueblo Indians were huddled in a open market trying to sell homemade goods to their white overlords, retired New Yorkers with cowboy hats and other gaudy accessories worn by rich easterners trying to connect with their--nonexistent--western roots. At that moment, I felt so thrilled to be an American, I longed to complete the experience by chowing down on some authentic American food. Unfortunately, McDonald's wasn't an option so I settled for Subway. I promptly left for Arizona and the Grand Canyon.

Pictures to come later.

love me tender, love me true

I received such a positive response from my post on the Holy Land Experience that I've decided to retire. I'm quiting while ahead and just driving back home.

Today involved a great deal of driving and very little not driving. Following a weather-induced departure from New Orleans, I drove to Moundville, Alabama, to see the remains of what was once the largest city in pre-Columbian North America.

The Mississippian culture had this habit of building giant mounds of dirt and placing important buildings on them. In fact, some archaeologists believe the cumulative works of the mound builders make the Egyptians look like a bunch of amateurs. All that is left today are the mounds which are not entirely impressive to look at, but are a remarkable achievement for North America's greatest pre-Columbian civilization.


The entire visit took less than an hour, but there was an informative movie on the site and the Mississippian culture and you can scale any of the mounds, including the 58-foot Mound B, the mother of all the mounds.

Because it was only thirty minutes from Moundville, I drove to Tuscaloosa, home to the University of Alabama. Two days earlier, I took a detour through Gainesville to see where the Messiah, Tim Tebow, performs his football miracles every Saturday and was unimpressed. Tuscaloosa, on the other hand, is a great college town. The campus is beautiful and there is a block of bars and restaurants next to campus called "The Strip," which is where I assume the students go to party. The gates to Bryant-Denny Stadium were open so I walked in to see where the Great Satan, Nick Saban, lives and leads his men to the top of the polls before embarrassing losses against teams like Utah. I suppose I should mention what my beef with Saban is.


Nick Saban used to coach Michigan State until bailing before a bowl game to make more money at LSU. He bailed LSU for the NFL where he promptly sucked and took a bazillion dollars to coach Alabama, exceed the NCAA limits for signing for recruits and be a general ass. Secretly, part of me wanted Tuscaloosa to be a terrible place so I could justify my dislike for Saban and the UA football team. It was not meant to be. Tuscaloosa would be an awesome place to watch a football game. Roll Tide!!

Next on the list was Tupelo, Mississippi, the birthplace of Elvis Presley. Elvis' dad built the 500 square foot, two room house with his father in 1934. Elvis and his parents only lived in the house for the first three years of his life, but it had such an impact on his life that he eventually bought the house and gave it to the city for preservation. A little park has been built around the house along with a museum and a visitor center and it's all very well done. I can imagine the place is a zoo during the tourist season.


I am finishing the day at a hotel in Memphis. I just got back from dinner at Marlowe's, a BBQ joint that was a gastronomical delight. Food is one of the reasons I stopped in places like Charleston, New Orleans and Memphis, and it has yet to disappoint. Tomorrow morning I am going to Graceland and then heading out west, not stopping until I get to Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Admittedly I am a tad melancholy about leaving the south. This trip was my first adventure in the Deep South and it exceeded my expectations. I didn't see any chain gangs or slaves singing spirituals while picking cotton, but everyone was extremely friendly and the only time I had trouble understanding thick accent was in Tupelo. The woman was so nice that I didn't even care. Even in the middle of nowhere, where country music and psychotic evangelical talk shows reign supreme, I could always find a radio station playing "normal" music. I've heard Taylor Swift so many times I think I'm developing a liking for country music...HA! My friends will say I've always been a tad dismissive of the south, but it will always have two things us northerners will never be able to match: good food and southern hospitality.

Time to head out west and seek my fortune looking for gold.

the big easy

Sunday night I partied in the city that, sadly, suffered the wrath of the Bush administration's biggest failure: New Orleans.

Driving west on I-10 you reach a bridge that stretches across Lake Pontchartrain. The bridge goes as far as you can see and off in the distance the skyline of New Orleans rises above the horizon. It is still another ten miles to the Mississippi River and downtown, but the wreckage from Hurricane Katrina is immediately apparent. At first the interstate splits the rich neighborhoods where all of the houses and apartment buildings are brand new, and the poor neighborhoods where all of the houses are missing roofs and walls. Nevertheless kids play in the front yards of buildings that should be condemned and I even saw a birthday party at a house with boarded-up windows, but they sure as Hell had a Dora the Explorer moonwalk on the front lawn.

New Orleans itself is a study in contrasts. I stayed in the Garden District where many of the houses are considered historic buildings. However, if you make a wrong turn and walk one block north instead of south, your chances of getting mugged go from 0% to almost 100%. Pick a street to look down and you can see a group of loitering white kids and across the street is a group of black kids. In any case, after dropping my bags off, I immediately took the trolley down to the French Quarter.

The French Quarter is the reason everyone loves New Orleans and it's obvious why. I felt like I was strolling the streets of Paris, just with Daiquiri shops and flashing neon lights everywhere. Not a good place for epileptics. I stopped at the famous Cafe du Monde for some beignets and had dinner at Coop's, a place known for its mean seafood gumbo--not to mention a fantastic Jambalaya. For the past three days I had been staring at the word "beignet" in my guidebook trying to figure out the correct pronunciation. When I was third in line at Cafe du Monde, I decided upon "big-nay" over "big-net." Yes I know, I'm an idiot. Fortunately, a 9-year-old girl in front of me asked her mom if she could have a "bin-yay" and I was saved from sure embarrassment.

After wandering the French Quarter for about thirty minutes, I ventured to Bourbon Street. The main drag of the French Quarter is an experience unlike any other. Even in the off-season the streets smell like booze and vomit, I can't imagine how terrible it is during Mardi Gras. The French-style buildings with their iconic baIconies house only two types of establishments: bars and strip clubs. Walk down the street and it's bar, bar, bar, strip club, bar, strip club, strip club...European coffee house? I settled on the bar Bourbon Cowboy, which featured a mechanical bull, a 3 for 1 drink special, and was just busy enough that I wouldn't be drinking alone. By the way, what a great game!

During halftime, a couple of shot girls jumped on the bar and started dancing, blocking my view of the halftime show. I politely asked them to move from my line of sight and they were so shocked I preferred the Boss over dancing girls that they came over after halftime to try and force me to buy shots.

The whole concept of shot girls is a giant scam perpetrated by bars in order to steal as much of your money while simultaneously keeping their liquor. The shot girls walk around with pretty colored shots that are always $1-2 cheaper than a normal shot. The idea is that you think, "Hey! This shot is cheaper and a hot girl is offering it to me, what a great deal!" The catch is that there is only a drop of alcohol mixed with some excessively fruity syrup. And it's not like you even have a chance with the girl selling it to you. Just say no.

I didn't buy a shot from the girls, but we did get to talking and I discovered they were the "talent" at one of the million strip clubs on Bourbon Street. The first girl's stage name was "Starbuck" which is a reference to the TV show Battlestar Galactica, a very smart drama that only five people including myself watch. Needless to say, it was awesome to meet a stripper who used a name from an obscure TV show that no one watches. The other girl actually graduated from Michigan and used to work at Deja Vu in Ypsilanti. Apparently, moving from a club in Ypsi to one in New Orleans means your career is going in the right direction.

The girls really wanted me to buy a shot and I didn't want one so they made a deal with me: They would give a me free shot if I let the second girl wear my Michigan hat during their next round through the bar. How could I resist? The best part, they charged the next couple of guys a few extra bucks to make up for the money they lost comping my drink.

The next morning I planned to walked around the city and get some pictures, but after five minutes, the sky opened and it began to rain. I wonder if the trauma from Katrina causes everyone in the city to collectively wince whenever it rains? Disheartened and just a little paranoid that the city might sink, I got in the car and left. Consequently, I only have a few pictures of historic homes that I will post on Picasa later.

religulous

Disclaimer: If you take religion way too seriously and think unicorns don't exist because they were arrogant and refused to get on the ark, turn back now!


Think of the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen. No seriously, think of something. Got it? Now multiple that by ten. At this point you are not even close to how terrible the Holy Land Experience is. About one mile from Universal Studios sits a "re-creation" of various biblical sites and the biggest sham of religion in a country that does a remarkable job of taking religion to the extreme. My sister summed it up best: "The dumbest thing I have ever seen."

The con artists who thought up this whole enterprise must be laughing on their giant piles of money right now. Building this atrocity not only suckers money away from honestly religious people, it also gets people like me who come to laugh at the people who take it seriously.


We arrived just in time to catch a reenactment of the Passion. For those not so religiously-inclined, it's when Jesus goes to meet his maker, though technically Jesus is also his maker if you believe in the Trinity. The entire production was over the top, though my favorite part was when they flogged Jesus with a miniature version of the foam noodles we played with at the beach as kids. The Roman soldiers took turns so the one not hitting could reapply fake blood to his noodle. When they raised Jesus on the cross you could see the metal rings he was holding--obviously they wouldn't actually nail his hands to the cross--and, if you remember your bible well enough, he forgave two fellow crucifixees that weren't actually there. At one point, right when Jesus was about to expire, they were playing the theme song from Gladiator over the loudspeakers. Wasn't that a little after his time?


I almost felt bad when I started laughing and looked to my left and saw a woman crying. But when I looked to my right and saw my sister laughing, I couldn't contain myself.

When they placed the body in the tomb, smoke began rising from within and suddenly Jesus appeared on the hilltop and told everyone to chill, he was OK. Afterward I saw that Jesus' tomb not only had a smoke machine, it also had a back door. So that's how he got out! The bible leaves out many of these little details.

The rest of the park was extraordinarily lame. There was the world's "largest indoor model of Jerusalem" that looked like a classroom of 3rd graders had spent an afternoon working with papier mache and toy figurines. You could also walk into a whale's mouth and see Jonah suspended in its stomach. What is the moral of that story? That the digestive juices of a whale aren't enough to kill a man?


Also there was Moses in the midst of parting the Red Sea which you walked through as sharks and fish stared out at you from the water wondering, "WTF?!" That reminded me of when I saw a descendant of the burning bush in Egypt and I asked my sister what she thought the real story was. According to her, Moses had been doing a little too much acid with his buddies and when he wandered off into the desert they decided to mess with him. One guy got behind a bush and lit it on fire while the other guy climbed up to a cliff with a megaphone shouting "Moses! Lead your people out of Egypt!"

I personally appreciated the statue of Jesus walking on water with his hand out. There was a step so you could hold his hand and walk on water with him. Rest assured, pictures were taken and hilarity ensued. At the time I thought I had just wasted $35, but just sitting here writing this has made the whole experience worth much more than the pittance we paid.


As always more picture here.

flo-rida

My friends and I have been conditioned to hate Florida. Too much humidity, too many old people, and isn't Walt Disney World reason enough? Yet after months of not seeing the sun and hiding indoors to avoid freezing temperatures, the blue skies and blue water spread happiness like an infectious disease. My primary reason for visiting Florida is to see Charlie, my sister's dog. My secondary reason, to see the Holy Land Experience, which I will dedicate an entire entry to. My tertiary reason, to visit my sister. And if you have yet to figure out I'm an irreverent smart ass, well, good luck reading.

My brother may argue that California is the land of extremes, but I beg to differ. Florida is essentially one giant strip mall. In my sister's apartment complex, the top floor units are cheaper than the ground floor ones because old people can't climb stairs. Florida also contains some of the most rabidly conservative people on the planet. Rush Limbaugh is based in this state. At a party my sister recently attended, a couple told her that it's terrible the United States has elected a black president and that that day should never have come. Apparently when people reach the age where they don't care anymore about making racist comments in public and no longer need factual evidence to back up their statements (Because I said so!), it's time to move to Florida and allow the rest of the country to keep on truckin'.

free at last! free at last! thank god almighty we are free at last!

Yesterday morning I was in Atlanta with two objectives in mind. I wanted to see the Coca-Cola Experience, which people at the hostel were raving about, and Auburn Ave. where Martin Luther King Jr. was born and gave his first sermons. Quite the polar opposites right?

I began by walking down Auburn Ave. through a neighborhood I wouldn't characterize as very safe. On three occasions I ran into corner boys who were clearly selling something I wasn't interested in buying. I would not recommend this stroll to people by themselves.

When I arrived at the visitor center, a whole two blocks are run by the Park Service, the ranger recommended I watch a video about King's life before wandering through the museum. Wait, let me first give a disclaimer. For the majority of the childhood that I remember, our family lived in what could loosely be defined as the suburbs, right outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Part of the reason my parents moved to Ann Arbor was because the city was lauded as a diverse place to raise your kids. In my lifetime I have never really been a witness to racism. Sadly, I know people who are probably racist, but I have never seen the aggression and hate in person before. I don't ever remember asking why people were certain colors or not being able to play with a friend because they were Black, Asian, or whatever. It's just something that has not been a powerful driving force in my life.


The Park Service's video on King's life was moving enough to bring me to tears. From the point I walked out of the theater until I walked away from the tomb of King and his wife Coretta Scott I was a wreck. I can't even possibly begin to imagine what this place would mean to a black person who grew up in the south while King was alive. I find it so unbelievable that one group of people could be so harmful to another simply because of the color of their skin. And that King was able to affect so much change through peaceful demonstrations and civil disobedience; there are no words I am capable of using to express how incredible that is. Seeing everything on Auburn Ave. really helped bring more perspective to what this nation has accomplished by electing Barack Obama as president.


Quite frankly, it's almost inappropriate to follow such an emotional experience with a trip to the Coca-Cola Experience, but caffeine is a pick-me-up. The "Experience" as it is called, is what you might think, a giant advertisement for Coke. However, it is very interesting to walk through and see how Coke started, how it has changed over the years and how it is made and bottled. Apparently a bottle of Coke cost five cents for seventy years until the company realized they could charge more and get away with it. Capitalism at its best. The best part of the whole tour is at the end when you can try over seventy Coke brands from across the world. Afterwards I was on such a sugar high I thought I was going to be sick. On to Florida!

Pictures

southern hospitality

I think I'm officially too old for hostels, or at least American hostels. Let's imagine your house, a 2500 square foot home perhaps. Proceed to jam every bedroom with at least three pairs of bunk beds, add some non-matching furniture that you picked up from someone's lawn because it was being thrown away, and don't clean the bathroom for a good five years. Needless to say, I look forward to getting out west and staying in cockroach motels with mattresses that sink a foot in the middle and boast color television as their top amenity.

Actually, the hostel in Charleston was not too bad, but I say that because late January is not tourist season and I had an eight bed room to myself.

Charleston, on the other hand, was an extremely charming city. You could easily get lost downtown just wandering the streets looking at historic homes and the many parks. The finely restored antebellum architecture was fascinating in and of itself, but what caught my eye was the lushness of the landscaping. Trees, flowers and shrubbery were everywhere: on the sidewalks, in the alleys, even parking lots looked like garden paradises. Everything was a dark shade of green which was a beautiful contrast with the surrounding architecture.


Despite the foreboding skies, I thoroughly enjoyed my morning strolling the cobblestone streets. Small parks would invite you in with a sort of dark intimacy created by dense vegetation and trees whose branches weaved a roof of leaves, nearly blocking out the sky. The cemeteries were just as welcoming, small clusters of headstones surrounded on three sides by buildings whose walls would rise up only inches away from the outer graves. And if, for a minute, you thought the city couldn't be more charming, nearly every restaurant and hotel had little gas lamps adorning the walls. If there is a Utopian city, Charleston is about as close as you get. It didn't matter that I am a twenty-something from Michigan, I had a strong feeling of nostalgia for pre-war southern life.


I traveled next to Magnolia Plantation, established in 1676 by the Drayton family and said to be the oldest plantation in the south (It has remained in the Drayton family for 15 generations). The site is primarily known for its gardens, which Reverend John Drayton created after he inherited the property in 1840. Following the Confederacy's defeat and the burning of his house by freed slaves, a bankrupt Reverend was forced to open the plantation to tourists, allegedly making it the first man-made tourist attraction in the United States.

The property is beautiful and its most defining feature is the exquisite garden surrounded by Oak trees covered in Spanish Moss. Unfortunately, the dark skies and winter conspired to make all my pictures give the impression I was in a desolate place far from any civilization.

While the sheer variety of fauna in the gardens was incredible, I found the whole experience a little haunting and slightly detached from reality. Less than seventy years ago, the gardens were tended by the descendants of slaves and before that, hundreds of slaves toiled in the rice fields. Following a day standing in the footsteps of people who, despite all odds, contributed to the success of this country, I was now walking through fields once occupied by the men and women upon whose backs the country was built. Today the primary gardeners are white men with mullets and camouflage cargo pants who stand up as they ride ATVs around the plantation. A tour of the property certainly didn't add to the perception I already had that the south may never get over its' history rooted in slavery.

The plantation grounds house approximately fifty alligators, a fact pointed out nearly a dozen times by the tour guide. I was hoping to get some history of the place--because the brochures offered squat--but we must have spent thirty minutes talking about alligators and stopping to let the other tourists take pictures of alligator after alligator. How many pictures of inanimate alligators can you take before they all look the same? When you're retired with a camera and nothing else better to do the answer is a million. In any case, after a lengthy discussion of the eating habits of alligators we headed towards the cabins where the slaves used to live. We were on a tram and as we turned the corner and came into view of the cabins, the guide actually sped up and quickly said, "AndHereAreWhereSlavesLivedUntil1940...Who wants to see more alligators!" Everyone let up a cheer and we zoomed by the cabins. Not one person took a picture. And with that I left and began the short drive to Savannah.

Savannah was everything Charleston was not: boring and uninspiring. The visitor center claimed that Savannah was the first "planned" city and the past few years have been spent restoring a square-mile historic district. Granted, many of the squares containing statues to Southern Civil War heroes were nice places to sit and avoid the commotion of the city streets. However, similar squares exist in a million other cities and nothing about Savannah really endeared it in my mind as unique. Even the famed Riverfront, while better than Detroit's equal, looked out upon factories coughing up black smoke and barges moving supplies up the Savannah River. I promptly left for Atlanta.

More pictures here.