Naughty, Naughty Stanley

We’re just getting in the car when we realize -- we've already lost Flat Stanley. Grandma says she handed him to me while I was busy packing the car. Busy being the operative word here. Mom comes to my defense, but Grandma proclaims her innocence. I can hear them going at it back and forth as I UNPACK the car I just finished packing.

I lose it a bit. I say I take full responsibility for losing Stanley, but don’t care about a stupid piece of paper. This is of course not true – I feel terrible.

Then I find the little bugger hiding between the door and my equipment (audio recorder, camera ...the magic eight ball binder.) I curse at him, and the girls crack up at the sight of me scolding an inanimate object. I give Stanley a time-out.

Maybe I’m the one that needs the time out.

I drive first. The speed limit is eighty, and I’m taking advantage. There is nothing – and I mean NOTHING – for miles around. Not even billboards. The windmills aren’t moving, and even the sheep that occasionally dot the roadside look like stage props. Regardless, we all agree there is something beautiful in the simplicity.

Mom wants me to pull over to get a piece of cactus to take home. I'm not sure why she can't just BUY a cactus. Grandma reminds her there are rattlesnakes and that seems to end the conversation ... for a while.

We switch off after a few hours. The girls tell me about the acres of wind turbines we passed when I closed my eyes for 30 minutes in a failed attempt to get some sleep. We stop at all the historical markers we come across. And after what seems like eternity (and a flat butt later), we arrive at Carlsbad Caverns. Mom and I are going to do the Natural Entrance Route, a one mile hike into the depths. It's really, really steep -- so we tell Grandma we'll meet her in the heart of the caverns, which she can access by elevator. We tell her to relax, have a cup of coffee, and we'll do the 8.2 acre Big Room Route together when we get down there.

She's nowhere to be found when we arrive.

Here’s our respective reflections:

MOM

It was as amazing as I remember it. I had never done that approach before – and now find that I’ve outgrown my interest in spelunking. I walked into Slaughter Canyon once -- when my knees where less stiff -- and I was a lot younger. It made me appreciate a good working elevator.

It was also like breathing in the fumes of the world’s largest cat litter box. And there’s just something about grabbing a slimy wet handrail that made me cringe every time I had to do it. Yucky.

GRANDMA

The girls stuck me in an elevator and said we’ll see you downstairs. I looked around. Waited around. Then talked to a park ranger who suggested touring the Big Cavern – either the half mile or mile and a quarter walk. I started with the short tour and decided to go all the way. I came upon a rock formation that looked just like Jabba the Hutt.

Karen and I were too pooped to make our way down to watch the bats fly out. The nice park ranger Amy met earlier suggested we park at the East end of the parking lot. There was a never ending stream of bats. I don’t know how to describe it.

BACK TO ME
My favorite part was meeting Park Ranger Gosia. Actually, that’s just her nickname, but if I tried to tell you her real name, you’d go blind trying to figure out how to pronounce it. She’s from Poznan, Germany -- the same town as my great grandfather. Gosia goes over the rules and regs, telling us not to talk in regular voices since sound can carry up to a quarter mile. She tells us the rules apply to Flat Stanley as well, then regales us with a few stories.

In the stretch of cave we’re tackling, sound echoes. It gets amplified – a lot. She tells us about this guy on the trail ahead of her one time who farted. Well, the fart sound echoed ... and amplified ... and carried. He was horribly embarrassed.

No kidding. Who farts in a cave? I’d be more worried about scent than sound carrying.

Gosia also tells us about this elderly couple touring the cave. The gentleman came up to her and said his wife wanted to know what it meant when water landed on your head in the cavern. She replied, "It's a cave kiss." He turned and shouted into the darkness to his wife, "It's cave piss."

Man, people are funny.

Mom shouts my name as soon as we get in so I can hear what it sounds like in a cave. Her knees are killing her when we finish and begin the search for Grandma. We search the gift shops ... the restrooms ... the car. Mom stays there as I run back in to the cavern for a full-scale search and rescue effort. I'm beginning to worry the old lady has been grandma-napped.

She's just finishing the loop when I get off the elevator. She's tired after the pretty strenuous (especially for an 86-year-old) walk, so she heads to the car as well. I do the loop solo, and I'm glad for the quiet and solitude.

And when I say quiet and solitude, that's EXACTLY what I mean. It's so silent here that my ears are actually ringing from the lack of sound. There's occasional dripping sounds (cave piss), and so much to look at it's nearly impossible to take it all in. I keep thinking it's like walking on the moon. Beautiful, but foreign and slightly alien looking. Fitting for where we're heading next -- Roswell.

Before we head out, we head to watch the bats fly out to hunt bugs. Carlsbad Caverns is home to about half a million Mexican free-tailed bats. They start trickling out around 6:45 pm, and steadily pick up pace. As they leave the mouth of the cave, they fly in a counter clockwise direction before heading South. The "audience" is watching very quietly The bats are extremely sensitive to sound. It affects their sonar and thus their ability to fly. You can hear the flaps of their wings and the smell from the caves brought up with the cool air from the depths of the cavern. It's kind of like a bat tornado feeding a stream of black water disappearing into the night sky.

I sit next to Zach and his Mom from San Diego. They're driving back from Gainesville, Florida, where he just finished college. They've been driving the same route as us and have stopped in many of the same cities. We agree that being trapped in a car with your Mom for thousands of miles take a Zen-like patience at times.

For context, it takes the about two hours to fly out of the cave. We leave after 35 minutes. Zach says a bat is a bat. I agree, but it was still pretty cool. Once.

We arrive in Roswell around 11:00 pm. There's another bug in the room, but I think we're all too tired to care. Grandma snored so loud last night, she’s earned the privledge of her own bed tonight. Yaaaaaaay!

I'm sleeping in.

Breakfast and a Blog

Would you believe in this tiny Days Inn in Junction, Texas, we finally have a fan in the bathroom? Thankfully, it's a clean room and it's a relief not to find bugs in the bed, especially here. Need I remind you -- everything is bigger in Texas. I am still a little weirded out from Day One and have a hard time sleeping without thinking about bugs crawling around at my feet.

We wake up Flat Stanley and head to breakfast. Karisa ... we fought over the muffins. Mom and I like the pumpkin spice best, but Gram likes the bran. We do discover something in Texas that is NOT representative of the big Texas Spirit -- the apples and muffins at the hotel. They are teeny tiny. We feed them to Stanley.

All Hail the Chipped Windshield!

Everything happens for a reason.

Did I mention that we had a rock chip the windshield yesterday outside of Austin? I prod Mom into action and we had an appointment to get it fixed before we even arrived at Bunny's. The plan was to drop the car off at 7:30 am and go get breakfast.

But the breakfast place Bunny is taking us to is AWOL. Looks like they may be out of business. Time to pull out the binder -- the four-inch thick mass of materials I gathered and organized for months before the trip. It's like a magic eight ball, and when I shake it this morning ... out falls Taco Express .

Hailing itself a "Hippie Church", they have gospel music for brunch on Sundays. And tacos for breakfast. The girls are really skeptical. They keep trying to reroute us to Ihop. There's a theme in this city -- "Keep Austin Weird." This place wins a medal toward that effort. Tucked in amidst Willie Nelson and Che Guevara images are media mentions of this place in every form. From Diners Drive-Ins and Dives ... to Rachel Ray. Southern Living Magazine calls owner, Maria Corbalan, the Texas Taco Queen.

All hail the Queen. I order a migas taco and add chorizo. It's freaking amazing. My lips are tingling deliciously when we head back to the car. Thankfully, we gassed up last night so we can get right back on the road. Sorry, couldn't help myself.

We stop at the business next door -- Taste No Evil Muffins. We pick up a few for tomorrow's breakfast. The really cool thing about this business is it's in a travel trailer. Like the Hey, Cupcake business mentioned in my previous post, it's a mobile business that doesn't move. Airstreams and campers parked on the sides of the road selling snow cones, crepes, popcorn -- even Thai food. It's a relatively new thing here in Austin, and a story I'm working on for NPR. Stay tuned.

We decide since Bunny can't come with us to San Antonio, we'll hang out a little longer in Austin. I suggest a visit to KUT, the local NPR station. We pass the original Whole Foods on the way, and I discover that Austinites also call it "Whole Paycheck". At KUT, local Morning Edition host, Jennifer Stayton gives us a tour. We finally get a taste of what I was searching for in this city ... MUSIC!

This great little band -- Shotgun Party -- is getting ready to play live on the air. They're practicing their song "Mean Old Way", which is on their first CD, set to be released in just two days. We meet the band, and they are just fabulous. Band member Jenny Parrot follows us downstairs to talk a little more about our trip. Give them a listen ... it's totally worth your time. Here's us with Jenny:



Then we meet Kinky Friedman, Texas gubernatorial hopeful, singer, songwriter and novelist. We introduce ourselves and tell him about the trip. Bunny introduces herself as a registered voter. His handshake to her seems to last a little longer. As he gets on the elevator to go in for an interview, he peeks out the door and says, "Don't mess with Texas!"










We head to the place where Kinky hopes to work soon -- the state capitol. It's the largest state capitol building in the US, and everything is done in BIG Texas style. Every nook and cranny, including the door hinges, is decorated to the hilt. In silent protest, I ignore Dubya's likeness in the row of Governor's paintings. Mom says that's how she feels about President Obama. I bite my tongue.

Outside the capitol we meet Joanna Demopoulos. She's holding up and trying to take a picture of this little paper doll at the same time. I have no idea what this thing is, but I offer to hold it up for her. She introduces me to Flat Stanley. I offer to take Stanley with us to Las Vegas. How many Stanleys get to travel cross country to Sin City with three hot babes? I'm seriously considering an NC-17 version of Stanley's trip, but Mom insists I keep it G-rated. This Stanley belongs to a third-grader at Bethany Christian School in Tempe, Arizona. Seeing this, I feel terrible about my nefarious plans for Stanley. I promise -- he'll be on the straight and narrow.

As we get ready to leave, I go to shake Joanna's hand. She looks at me like I have a screw loose and says, in her wonderfully warm accent oozing Southern hospitality, "This is Texas -- we HUG." It's just about the best damn hug I've ever received from a total stranger. It makes me think of something Bunny said earlier about the larger-than-life nature of Texans. She called it charming, and I totally agree. I think it must be because it's not malicious. The people of this state really do believe Texas is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Make that Texas Toast. Everything is bigger in Texas, and I have to say -- the hugs are definitely better. I like Texas.

Mom has always wanted to travel with a Flat Stanley. She says she wished she'd had one in Greece since it would have been more fun than the guy she went with. There's not a car in sight, so we walk across the road on a green light. Mom's thinks a car will come flying over the hill. I tell her not to worry -- we'll only have a Flat Grandma to add to our collection. She says they can share a seat. Grandma doesn't think we're funny.

It's been just four four hours since we dropped off the car. Hell of a morning, right?

We're on our way to San Antonio and the car is making a bizarre sound. I've accidentally discovered how to turn overdrive on and off. I laugh and point out all the new things Mom's learning about her car on the trip -- from hidden cup holders to reclining back seats. She says my humor is on overkill. I'm laughing so hard at her I keep missing when the lights change. She's getting irritated. I tell her it's not my fault -- the lights in this town change super fast. The lights in Washington DC take so long you could read through Pride and Prejudice at each stop.

I tell her to pull out the magic eight ball and read up on out next stop -- the Alamo. Apparently when I printed the pages, it got cut off on the right side. I tell her to improvise. This is what she reads:

"An event occured in San Antonio nearly 170 years ago that remembered today. The historic event, as most visitors to the already know, was the epic Siege and Battle of the Alamo. Neve those who look for the remains of the battlefield are often disappo mystified by what they find at 300 Alamo Plaza."

Really ... what the hell kind of co-pilot do I have here?

When we arrive, Grandma asks a guard when they moved the Alamo. He looks at her like she's off her rocker. She insists that the last time she visited it was in the boon docks. He says no. She argues. He firmly, if not indignantly, tells her the Alamo was NOT moved. She seems placated by his explanation that there's just been a lot of development, but I have a sneaking suspicion she's still skeptical.

We take a boat ride along the riverwalk. It's a stunning area filled with all kinds of shops and resaurants. After a grueling death march to the car (my excellent sense of direction obviously impaired by my lack of sleep), we pile in and head for a place my friend Maurice suggested for dinner. He's a Texas native and says Mi Tierra has the best Mexican food around. It's all he's promised and more. Our server, John "Gonzo" Gonzales is from Lansing, Michigan, where I grew up and went to college (Michigan State -- Go, Spartans!). Small freaking world. He recommends the chicken and mole enchiladas, and we are not disappointed.

We're getting so slap happy from exhaustion that we totally forget to drive down Missions Trail on our way out of town. I'm a little bummed, but Mom keeps saying, "homie don't play that" in response to just about everything I say. And poor Grammie looks like she might soon join the legions of the undead without sleep. I need to get these girls to a hotel.

So I drive an hour and a half. We stop in Junction, Texas.

It's now 2:00 am. Do you know where your sanity is?

Letter to a GPS

Dear GPS (a.k.a. Bitch),

This relationship isn't working. Today you had me running around in circles. I knew the path I was on was right, yet I doubted my own judgment and followed your direction. I can't help but feel disappointed.

It's not just that. Every time I go my own way -- and you don't agree with what I'm doing -- I feel like you mock me. You scream the same thing over and over, trying to get me to turn around and follow you. Can I never do anything right in your eyes?

Tonight was the last straw. I just don't understand why you would tell me to go the wrong way down a one-way-street. I listened to you. I followed you. You led me astray.

I'm afraid you're trying to kill me.

I hate to tell you this way, but I'm leaving you for Map. We've been sneaking around behind your back for a while now. I think we're made for each other. Map makes me feel more confident, and has NEVER let me down like you have. I'm taking the girls with me, but am sure they'll want to see you again soon.

I won't lie -- I still have feelings for you. Maybe down the road we can work things out. But you need to get your shit together. I'm not putting up with this nonsense anymore.

Yours truly,


Amy

Packing ... Unpacking ... Packing

A brief post to demonstrate the ridiculousness of the load we're carrying. It's in cupcake format as a tribute to the deliciousness at Hey, Cupcake in Austin.

Step One ... The wrapper, otherwise known as a Toyota Rav4:















Step Two ... The Cake, red velvet in honor of Texas:














Step Three ... The frosting, but just so you know -- there's nothing SWEET about carrying this crap back and forth from car to hotel every day! I won't even mention the stuff in the back seat.














Now that we're packed, a look at the weather report from aforementioned Hey, Cupcake:

A Day of Follies

The elevator on our floor wasn't working last night. That meant Grandma had to hoof it down the stairs from another elevator on this split-floor building. It's still not working this morning. That means another trip for her UP the stairs, as well as Mom and I with all the luggage. Have I mentioned how much luggage we have? What's really irritating is that I specifically requested an accessible room. Thankfully, we're only an hour late shipping out.

As we're getting on the road, the GPS tells us to go right when the sign for 10 West toward Baton Rouge is on the left. Never trust a GPS. I had to beat this particular system into submission on Day One, and I can tell you -- it wasn't pretty. Eventually, I made her my bitch. But I've not had the opportunity to straightened her out yet this morning.

So Grandma tells me, "She's your bitch, you slap her!"

My sweet little white-haired ever-shrinking angelic grandmother just said the word "bitch". I am dumbfounded. She just looks so ... innocent. Then Mom points out that she's also encouraging violence. It's all so out of character. The old lady is laughing maniacally at herself.

Five minutes later we're passing a big cemetery on the right and both the girls marvel at how big it is. I say it's just because it's above ground, but then see and point out another cemetery to our left. Mom looks ... with the car. We narrowly escape death, and I find it ironic that Grandma is now saying a quick prayer of thanks with the same mouth she swore out of minutes ago.

It's 8:00 am. Too early for a bloody mary?

We get into a political discussion. This is the arena in which our viewpoints literally duel to the death. They have very strong opinions about President Obama, health care, and the topic of discussion now -- immigration. I'll spare you the details, but leave you with the spin off of this conversation. Grandma says she has no desire to leave the USA because she lives in a great country. I love this country, too, though believe people who travel are more in tune with reality. They see the world through a different lens. Mom travels, too, but has no desire to see the colorful and culturally rich places I want to go, like Morocco and Thailand.

Still, we do both like travel -- and it's a good thing to share in common. Mom says we're like George. I say, Costanza? Frankly not seeing the correlation. She means George Bailey from "It's a Wonderful Life". She says he wanted to see the world. Ok ...I'll buy that. I want stamps in my passport like he wanted stickers on his luggage from around the world. I love that movie. I watched it on my first dtae with my boyfriend, Eric. He's trying to lasso the moon for me in the form of building the website. It's great, isn't it?

After a quick potty break, I get back in the car and Grandma says she needs to register a complaint. Mom flipped her off. She said she was only helping her by pointing out every little speck of bug guts she was missing as she cleaned the window. We pull back onto the road and Mom is yelling at other drivers in minutes. I think we all need a nap.

We drive about two hours out of our way to see the town of New Iberia so my Mom can see where the books she adores by author James Lee Burke are set. It's total back country Louisiana. Small towns ... farmers plowing fields ... cows dotting the roadside. I imagine it's what travel was like fifty years ago before highways made scenic drives a thing of the past. We pass a few donkeys laying down in a field. My Mom wonders if it means it will rain. Grandmas says it means they're just tired.

At 12:52, we hit out first 1,00 miles. A few hundred later, we roll into Round Rock where my Mom's friend Bunny lives. We're crashing at her place tonight. She's darling and has the cutests coon dogs you ever did see. And three cats.

Did I mention how allergic I am to cats?

We're grateful for the place to stay, so I load up on allergy meds and we head into Austin for dinner at Stubb's. Fried okra, braised beef, ribs and mac'n'cheese. This place is famous for being a hang out for rising stars like Joe Ely, Willie Nelson, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Muddy Waters and Johnny Cash. Click here to check out the story on NPR that inspired this waypoint.

We're too tired to actually go out, and I'm unsure that much is going on Monday night. There's also no cupcake places open (they are a staple here), so we head back to the ranch. So it sounds hokey -- but it IS a ranch-style house.

Before dinner, Mom realizes she has a credit card missing. She cancels it. She finds it.

As I get undressed, I realize I've lost an earring. I cancel caring and go to sleep.

Stormy New Orleans

There's thunder and lightening tonight in the Big Easy. Fitting, given the serious and reflective nature of the day. Sorry ... not many laughs for you tonight.

Another carb-loading episode this morning for breakfast. Why do these hotel chains think offering you up a choice of waffles, bagels, cereal, English muffins, toast, oatmeal and danish is a good idea? It makes me want to go back upstairs and take a nap, even though I know housekeeping wants me out so they can make their rounds. At least this place adds greasy sausages and microwaved eggs to the options.

There's also another small problem. Why in the world don't these hotels have fans in the bathrooms? Do they think patrons don't poo on vacation? Three women trapped in Cajun country with red beans and rice on the menu ... is a recipe for disaster. I pat myself on the back for packing Febreeze.

On to our day. Our first stop is the World War Two Museum. I have a closet obsession with WWII history. That ... and documentaries. WWII documentaries are a particular bonus. Our visit to the museum is particularly special as my grandfather was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed. He died a few years back, and this is something he would have really loved. Grandma regales us with stories about how they met during the war as pen pals, and about what it was like for him in the South Pacific, and her in nursing school. Her eyes get red as she relives memories I can only imagine.

I knew Grandpa was a company clerk during the war in the 25th Armory Division (he later moved to the 24th and became an MP). I knew he never fired a weapon. But today I learn something new. I learn HOW he got the office job that probably saved his life, while he and my grandmother's friends died. As they were assigning details, the guys were asked if anyone could type. My grandfather stepped forward. He couldn't even put paper in the machine, let alone type. I wonder if this makes him a coward. Or maybe it's genius. Then I recognize it's the same opportunistic nature his granddaughter inherited.

I also inherited his hunt-and-peck typing skills. This entire blog, and my life, really -- one key at a time.

The next step is a city tour with Javier Cuellar (our driver and GM of Dixie Tours) and Chris San Marco (our tour guide). I can't say enough about these guys -- they are hands-down THE company to tour with in New Orleans. Just lovely, lovely people. They really went out of their way to make sure we got a thorough tour and plenty of photo-ops. Chris teased us, but answered every question we threw at him.

We run through the French Quarter, looking at the infamous balconies jutting out over the streets and galleries jutting out over the banquette (that one's for you, Chris!) We see the balcony where Elvis sang in the movie King Creole (see pic).

We head to the 9th Ward, the area devastated by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Chris was living in St. Bernard Parish when Katrina hit, in the home he and his wife raised their family in for forty years. On August 29th, a 23-foot wall of water washed their lives away.

It took a month for the water to recede enough for Chris and his wife to return. When they did, all they could do was sit in the car and cry. When they fled, they left behind everything. When they returned -- very little remained. Lost in muck a foot high on the floors of their family home ... were their memories. Their childhood pictures. Their wedding pictures. Photos of their kids growing up. The things that make life -- life -- gone.

And much of life in this place remains absent, save slabs of concrete where houses containing other people's pictures used to be. Can you imagine your neighborhood, full of life and vibrancy one day. Vacant the next. A sense of community, and then nothing. No friendly neighbors waving across the fence. No kids playing in the backyard. No smells from summer barbecues. Just silence. Like a graveyard. I find this point driven home by the photos I've taken today. Steps that lead to nowhere, looking sadly like a grave marker for a life that used to be.

Chris says he and Javier could do two tours a day seven days a week before Katrina, and still turn business away. Post-Katrina, this is the first tour he's done in 15 days. Most people think the French Quarter and other touristy areas of New Orleans were also ravaged by water, but it's a false assumption. These areas suffered storm damage, but nothing as devastating as the effects of the loss of tourism.

Come to New Orleans. Eat beignet. Drink bloody mary's. Drive around with Chris and Javier. It's the best thing you can do to help.

And a sneaky way to help yourself with a visit to this fabulous city.