To check out a map of our Delta drive travel route, go here:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&source=embed&msa=0&msid=115398075535804411901.000494a2ebf2a94403083&ll=31.334871,-90.043945&spn=9.582333,9.206543&z=6
Our arrival into NOLA went off with a bang, as should be expected when your hotel is located at the corner of Canal and Bourbon Street. Hit and run, mom's rental car was wrecked on the back end. With all the traffic backed up, I actually ran after the woman--who was likely drunk--and verbally berated her while she pretended it didn't happen and refused to look at me through her open window. Mom's nerves were frazzled by the time the police report and calls to the insurance and rental car companies were completed. Time to enjoy drinks in the back courtyard of Napoleon's, a local hotspot in the French Quarter known for their Pimm's Cup: gin, tonic and cucumber, yum! Just what the doctor ordered.
I was attending Sea Grant Week, during which the communicators had a service project--plant Spartina grasses along the edge of Big Lake in NOLA's City Park to reduce shoreline erosion. In most parts of the country, this plant is considered an invasive species, taking over and choking out native vegetation. But down there, it's an important local plant with good root structure to hold the soil in place.
Tools of the trade: you dig a little wedge in the muck, stick the plant roots in and then push the wedge back in the muck nearby to tuck the plant in place.
On the left: the Spartina we just planted sparsely. On the right: Spartina planted one year ago. Check out how quickly it grows in!
Afterward, we ambled around the sculpture garden.
Had an alligator sausage po'boy--"all dressed"--for lunch. A little greasy and chewy, but at the time I was glad I tried it. However, it's pretty horrific hearing about their methods of capturing the alligators for their meat. This was probably the last time I will eat this creature due to intense guilt.
Later that evening, joined up with some friends and checked out a number of local haunts: The Port of Call for a monsoon and baked potato, jazz at the Spotted Cat, beignets at Cafe du Monde (open 24 hours). This city truly never sleeps. Ear plugs are a necessity if you want to catch some shuteye, even at 4 a.m.
Between the conference presentations and forgetting my camera at the hotel, I am lacking photos of the French Quarter. Rest assured, I explored the area for hours, enjoying the music: cajun, zydeco, jazz, blues, folk, even some bluegrass/old time on the streets. Old bookshops, back alleyways, open air markets, window shopping, watching how the locals live.
The garden district of the city is lovely and bursting at the seams with huge, immaculate homes. Kristen and mom drove me out there so we could enjoy a little walk together.
Amazing ironwork!
Gorgeous old cemeteries!
This city is in a beautiful state of permanent decay, enriched with history, steeped in myth, and yet people always think of dirty Bourbon Street, the only place I've ever seen that requires street cleaning--with soap!!--each morning.
Wonder what that's doing to the waterways every day. But if you've smelled Bourbon Street and tried not to step in the mystery liquid puddles, you'll agree that the soap is necessary. But it's never lacking in interesting people and activities.
The Budweiser clydesdales, along with their dalmation, stopped by too.
One last little tidbit: we stumbled upon what seemed to be amateur night at some blues club. Oh man. If you can imagine the intersection of William Shatner and Elvis, you'll arrive at Ready Teddy: The Swamp Daddy. My jaw was actually agape. I am having technical difficulties uploading the videos (they are looooong, which is the problem), so please stand by for a random post sometime later highlighting this dude and his acrobatics!
There's something to be said about getting the lay of the land, to really know and understand the landscape around you. To feel its strengths and weaknesses, to look around and identify how this space fits into the larger context. Not content to simply fly into the city of New Orleans without experiencing its surroundings, I begged for a tour of the the Mississippi delta and the Louisiana bayou.
My travels began in Biloxi, MS, where my sister is still working as an architect to design and build homes for Katrina victims. It's been two years since I was in Biloxi, and in that short time span, it already seems to be progressing. Street lights and road signs are more common, although the public library still uses a trailer. Near the peninsula, there used to be a Vietnamese neighborhood before the hurricane. Today, the land is filled with empty lots overgrown with shrubs and trees repopulating the area. Kristen finds interesting Asian fruits--like pears that have the consistency of apples, and sour cherries--and moth caterpillars resembling the dragon heads of traditional Chinese New Year celebrations.
Driving north, we picked up pecans and the Natchez Trace near Jackson just for a bit. Running from Memphis to Natchez, MS, the Trace is a gorgeous parkway centuries old, where goods were transported over the land prior to the Louisiana Purchase. The Trace has a sordid history of murder and mayhem that I need to read more about. Today, the tupelo and bald cypress swamp boasts alligators if you are lucky (or unlucky, as the case may be). Behold the tree roots pushing up to form knees, knobby protrusions to allow more oxygen uptake in waterlogged lands.
The Mississippi Center for the Arts in Jackson is home to a sweet blacksmith shop. A great design of angled roof, open air to allow nature to take care of removing the soot and smoke.
Downtown Jackson was a film location, likely due to its retro signs. Being one of the poorest states in the nation, I can imagine our positive view of retro signs are different than their thoughts of the decor being simply old and in need of replacement. Time for a greasy breakfast served by the nicest folks you'll meet this side of Alaska.
Mississippi is home to the only eastern petrified forest. Trees from north--as far away as Minnesota, likely--tumbled their way down the river torrents and got jammed up here, buried in sediment, and then preserved similar to the deserts. Organic matter changed very slowly into hardened minerals and the result is wood that looks like rock. You can still count the rings. Also home to a cool mineral museum which included fossils of fish and dinosaur excrement. No joke. 
We continued up to Yazoo City, officially hitting the flat expanse of the delta. Still over 100 miles from the Mississippi, but this area flooded before the levies were in place. Pitch black fertile soil, searing hot temperatures and home to the blues. 
The catfish capital of the world, Belzoni. Fish all farmed nearby, delicious fried catfish and sweet tea for a late lunch at the old-time pharmacy. It was 90 degrees in mid-October, I've heard the heat index gets up to 140 sometimes. No wonder things move slowly down here.
And of course, cotton fields galore. Remember when we made fun of all those folks stopping to take photos of cows near the road back in PA? Enter Becky, taking photos of cotton fields. 
Riverboat casinos on the mighty Mississippi at Vicksburg, a hip little newly restored city. Must spend more time there. 
Plenty of adorable armadillos on the Trace near Natchez where we camped.
The poorest state, reminders were everywhere. 
In Natchez for breakfast, although we missed the hot air balloon launch that morning. Plenty of rich folks lived in Natchez, this is where old money still exists.
Across the Mississippi into Louisiana, where we met up with miles and miles of oil refineries and sugar cane fields. The landscape was definitely changing.
Plantations, flanked by live oaks in the front, slave quarters in the rear. Harsh reality of living there, will hopefully tour one next time. 
Drove over the bayous and into New Orleans, more on that to come.
I don't think everyone understands what it's like to lose your childhood home.
As the situation currently stands, it is every bit of bittersweet. Our family split after many tumultuous years and heartache, and it was finally time to move on. A young Mennonite couple purchased it, hoping for a place full of character with land to raise their two-year-old girl and possibly future additions to their family.
I visited the house earlier this year to say goodbye. I thought I would have a tough time with that visit, but surprisingly I was content with the parting. Today, with the selling of the house, I am having a much more difficult time than I thought I would.
Hearing my mom talk about her conversation with the new couple--where we keep our extra key hidden in the loose rock of the barn, or where to stash the glass Ball jars for canning--caused me to bite back tears.
It is the only home my sister has ever known; it has been my home since age four until a few years ago. Cloud watching near the garden, or impromptu picnics on the hill in early spring, sledding and campfires, warm nights with the sounds of bullfrogs in the pond and the train nearby heard through open windows. Spending time near the barn using a hammer and a small chisel to chip the ground away from rocks, pretending I was a paleontologist digging up a dinosaur bone. Family gatherings at Thanksgiving and backyard badminton, until things got bad.
Picking my way through the woods of ferns, leaf hummus, small beech trees, tall white pines and hemlock, hopping from rock to rock in the stream until I found my favorite--a small boulder rounded off to permit rather comfortable seating arrangements. I used to sit there for hours, writing poetry, listening to the stream dance its way down towards the town of Fleetwood nearby. This place--Willow Stream, our two-acre forest--is the reason I began my career in the natural sciences. I will never see my muse again.
"Did you tell them about the woods on the other side of the stream?" I asked my mom twice, just to be sure. "They need to know about the woods..."
There is something magical about barrier islands and skinny strips of sand acting as peninsulas. They are continuously changing--fierce gales whip the sands to and fro into peaks and valleys; churning seas pummel the grains until they yield to the ocean's strength, devoured inch by inch, foot by foot. We build on land that is assumed to be permanent, when nothing could be further from the truth in places like Cape Cod. To our credit, our lives are so short in comparison to most geological changes that how could we think otherwise?
Approximate location: bicep of the Cape Cod "arm"; Towns: Brewster and Dennis
Dedication plaque on the bench overlooking the water: "Our happiest days were here. May it be so for you."
Carefree, away from the hustle of traffic outside of Boston. Enjoying the views before nightfall. Towns close up early here.
Breakfast with the locals outside of the Brewster General Store. Time to get the latest town gossip over coffee and muffins. Long church pews set up in a semi-circle outside to accommodate said gossip.
Cape Cod National Seashore. Location: forearm. Impromptu mushroom picking along the bike path!
Sites in Provincetown (Location: fingertip! we've run out of land):
South African food! Pumpkin kibbi, lemon tahini sauce on salad, awesome curried sweet potato fries. Funky digs.
Kettle ponds, freshwater leftovers from melting glaciers! The geek in me LOVES this stuff. Is it fishless, I wonder?
Lovely saltwater taffy at a roadside stand, "made by Cape Codders." Fluffernutter is the best flavor.
On the left: the Spartina we just planted sparsely. On the right: Spartina planted one year ago. Check out how quickly it grows in!
Afterward, we ambled around the sculpture garden.
Had an alligator sausage po'boy--"all dressed"--for lunch. A little greasy and chewy, but at the time I was glad I tried it. However, it's pretty horrific hearing about their methods of capturing the alligators for their meat. This was probably the last time I will eat this creature due to intense guilt.
Later that evening, joined up with some friends and checked out a number of local haunts: The Port of Call for a monsoon and baked potato, jazz at the Spotted Cat, beignets at Cafe du Monde (open 24 hours). This city truly never sleeps. Ear plugs are a necessity if you want to catch some shuteye, even at 4 a.m.
Amazing ironwork!
Gorgeous old cemeteries!
This city is in a beautiful state of permanent decay, enriched with history, steeped in myth, and yet people always think of dirty Bourbon Street, the only place I've ever seen that requires street cleaning--with soap!!--each morning.
Wonder what that's doing to the waterways every day. But if you've smelled Bourbon Street and tried not to step in the mystery liquid puddles, you'll agree that the soap is necessary. But it's never lacking in interesting people and activities.
The Budweiser clydesdales, along with their dalmation, stopped by too.
One last little tidbit: we stumbled upon what seemed to be amateur night at some blues club. Oh man. If you can imagine the intersection of William Shatner and Elvis, you'll arrive at Ready Teddy: The Swamp Daddy. My jaw was actually agape. I am having technical difficulties uploading the videos (they are looooong, which is the problem), so please stand by for a random post sometime later highlighting this dude and his acrobatics!
